


For No Good Reason

by GhostGarrison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: (at first), Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Blood and Violence, Breathplay, Depression, From Sex to Love, Graphic Description, Hair-pulling, Illustrated, M/M, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Red Hawke, Riding, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Smoking, Surgery, Unrequited Love, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: In the midst of an all-out war among the nations of Thedas, Colonel Hawke and Surgeon Anders face a hopeless situation each day. They use each other to release the stress from their positions in the Ferelden army, a casual relationship that grows and twists into something more as the war rages on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well... here it is. Been working on this for over a year now. 
> 
> This is a gritty, gory war AU based vaguely on World War 1 (trench warfare and the like, with not a lot of tech/medical advancements). My area as a historian lies in World War II and the Cold War, but I did research and took liberties. Noncon happens in chapter 4, skip to the end notes if you need specifics. Please mind the warnings. Title (and a snippet of a quote in this) shamelessly stolen from Hemingway.
> 
> Thank you so much to hollyand (here on AO3! read her stuff!) for proofing this and being my biggest motivation.
> 
> More illustrations coming soon!

War is a dirty deed.

There is nothing glamorous nor romantic about it, despite how all the newspapers and cinema describe it to the general populace back home. There’s no rest, no smiles, no comfort―nothing but the lingering smell of rotting corpses and the knowledge that the dirt beneath your feet is the same dirt you’ll be buried beneath.

All waking hours are filled with the sounds of distant gunshots and explosions, war cries of those leaving and the broken, bitten-off sobs of the few who return. There isn’t a moment’s peace in the reserve encampment, and even if there was, it would be nearly impossible to savor it.

As the only surgeon remaining in the unit, Lieutenant Colonel Anders rarely sees the outside of his medical tent. He spends his days and nights elbow-deep in the blood and guts of his fallen men, digging out shrapnel and stitching up flesh. They’re only a few scant miles away from the front lines, long jagged stretches of trenches filled with young soldiers who ultimately end up on his operating table.

Or worse, dead.

It’s a dangerous job, but Anders can’t let these men die, not when they’re risking so much for their nation. It’s his sacred duty as a medical professional to keep people breathing, to ensure soldiers can make it back to the front lines to relieve the ones already lost from the constant onslaught of raining artillery shells.

Though injuries are almost always extensive, Anders has very little supplies to work with. He has a standard set of steel surgical tools, issued to him when he was deployed, but these days he finds himself ripping apart sheets and blankets, even clothes, to make bandages.

It’s been years since the war began, and both sides are feeling the brunt of the exhaustion. There’s hardly any food left, rations spreading more and more thin every day. Tensions run high within the camp, especially among the higher ranking members, with no outlets to be had other than betting one’s meager belongings―portions of rations, cigarettes and chocolates sent from home―and losing them all in a game of cards.

It doesn’t mean that soldiers don’t find… _other things_ to do.

A platoon returned from the front trenches just minutes ago, more than half of their numbers missing. The soldiers at rest emerge from their tents, helping their injured brothers-in-arms and steering the worst toward the medical tents, toward Anders’ ceaseless care.

With only a few soldiers to help him prioritize the injured, Anders moves the most critical to his table. The man is groaning faintly, his skin paling from the blood loss he sustained on the journey back to camp. It could be said that it was a miracle this man made it this far, but Anders doesn’t believe in miracles.

Not anymore.

The man’s left arm is torn apart, bone shattered and tissue ragged from artillery shrapnel. It doesn’t take Anders more than a glance at it to know that the arm is a lost cause.

“Help him!” One of the surviving platoon members begs, eyes wild from shell shock and immeasurable concern. “He can’t die! You _have_ to save him!”

“I’m trying!” Anders barks in return, dousing a cloth with chloroform and pressing it to his patient’s mouth. The man struggles for only seconds before passing out, giving Anders the opportunity to get to work. “Move aside.”

“Please, buddy,” the soldier says, turning to plead with the unconscious soldier on the surgery table. His voice is hushed, tears now streaming freely down his cheeks in an emotion Anders hasn’t felt in a long time. It’s clear that these two are more than just friends, _more_ than brothers-in-arms. “You can’t leave me here, not now. Not like this.”

“Get him out of here,” Anders says to a nearby assisting soldier, wasting no time in cutting the patient’s uniform off with sharpened scissors. The distraught and frenzied man doesn’t budge, even when Anders’ helpers try to usher him toward the tent entrance. “ _I said out!_ ”

“Did you not hear the doctor?” says a voice, deep and commanding. Colonel Hawke stands at the open tent flap, his tall and broad figure filling up the opening completely. He must have also just returned, still in his field kit with blood and mud splattered across his face, crusting in his thick dark beard. His eyes are clear and intense, locked on the hysterical soldier. “ _Out._ ”

“Yes, Colonel,” the soldier says, sobering up enough to scurry past the commanding officer without a protest.

Anders immediately returns his attention to his patient, conscious of his superior who remains in the tent. Amputation was never an easy task, but it was too often necessary. His patient’s arm was too damaged to save, and even if he tried, there was a high chance that it would turn gangrenous and kill the soldier within forty-eight hours.

“Report to my tent,” Hawke says.

“I’m a little busy right now,” Anders retorts with a peeved glare thrown at the colonel who still stands with his arms crossed. His tone has an attitude that would get him reprimanded had it been to any superior other than this man.

Hawke’s face only hardens, deep brown eyes boring into the side of Anders’ head as if to say ‘ _no shit._ ’ “When you’re finished,” he adds with a curt nod, promptly turning on his boot heel before leaving.

After the amputation was another, followed by an endless stream of sewing stitches and setting broken bones. Anders has seen the insides of enough men to last a lifetime, even as a surgeon. He’s held hearts in his hands, caught between the fragile balance of life and death, depending on him to swing the chances. There’s no moment of rest between one body being moved to the infirmary tent and the next being heaved upon his table.

There isn’t nearly enough antiseptic to be satisfied, to be certain that he isn’t just sending men to the infirmary to die slowly from an unseen infection. He’s running low on cocaine hydrochloride, using one of his last bottles to numb the pain of a number of gunshot wounds to unfortunate places.

It’s hours later when the last stitch has been sewn. Two men died under his hands, and several more lost their lives while waiting for the medical attention they so desperately needed. It once used to weigh on him greatly, but that was many years ago. Instead, Anders wipes his brow, cleaning his hands on a cloth while those assisting him clean the tools and table.

He wishes he could do more for these men, but it’s difficult when he is only one man. Anders once worked alongside another surgeon named Nathaniel Howe, but the man was relocated to another camp that lost its medical team to an air raid.

Even short-staffed, there aren’t enough supplies for his work to be effective. Most men who get injured on the battlefield don’t even make it back to camp. It makes his chest ache, wishing he could go out to the front lines, just to save more lives from being taken by this senseless war.

But he can’t. Anders has been deemed too valuable to lose so he’s restricted to the encampment like a child sent to his room, and he has Colonel Hawke to thank for that.

When Anders finally sets foot out of his tent, the scene before him is how it’s always been―grey, dreary, and never changing. Dozens of soldiers lay about the encampment, either crowded around small fires built from rotting wood or sequestered away by themselves. Too many of them have eyes that look blankly into the distance, bodies covered in soiled bandages, leaning on makeshift crutches to recover before going right back to where it began.

Only to do it all again until they’re fortunate enough to die.

Anders feels a sense of personal failure for how many men are missing, even though it is not truly his fault. He’s lost numerous people on his surgery table, but not nearly as many as are lost on the battlefield. Countless brave men are left to die while those who have a chance at survival are carted back to camp to receive his emergency services.

Many soldiers nod at him as he walks by, a subtle show of respect to their one and only surgeon, the person whose sole responsibility is keeping them alive.

And he will continue to do so, until his very last breath.

When he arrives to the colonel's private tent, Hawke is at his desk―an old lacquered table looted from one of the wartorn villages he’s passed through. There’s an ink pen perched between his fingers, scribbling neat cursive across a piece of paper.

The man’s expression, usually hardened by the months at war, has a soft edge. Anders knows Hawke is writing a letter to his family―his sister or his mother. He knows little about the women waiting for the colonel at home, but Hawke writes to them at least once a week, sending the letters away with the camp’s meager mail service. Anders wishes he had someone to write to, but the last he heard, his childhood village was destroyed by enemy bombers.

No survivors.

Anders lets the tent flap fall closed behind him, signaling to the rest of the camp that the colonel is not to be disturbed. Anders is the single exception to this rule, though he’s hardly come to the man’s tent without invitation.

Hawke doesn’t look up from his writing, a clear display of arrogance in knowing that Anders will wait until he’s finished. He is a fearsome man, seeing his way up through the ranks through hard work and valor, leading the troops with an iron fist and a trail of blood behind him.

He’s merciless on the battlefield, or so Anders has heard. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Anders often wonders when he’ll see Hawke’s body end up on his surgery table, unable to be saved. It’s only a matter of time.

Hawke finishes writing, folding the paper carefully before sliding it into a prepared envelope. He seals it with wax from his candle, pressing his signet ring to the letter before setting it aside.

He turns in his seat to face Anders, no change in his expression to acknowledge the surgeon’s presence. Instead, he simply gestures for him to come closer with the curl of his finger. Anders instantly obeys―there’s not a single soul in the encampment that can defy the colonel’s orders. And though this isn’t an order, Anders would follow the man anywhere he wanted. _Do_ anything he wanted.

Hawke just has that way with people.

The colonel stands to his full towering height, fingers gripping Anders’ jaw and painfully digging into his day-old stubble. He draws Anders’ face near, their mouths close enough to kiss, but Anders knows it’s not Hawke’s intention. They haven’t shared that intimacy, not even during this, and he’s not sure they ever will. What they do is for a much-needed release of stress, all that pent up frustration and fear of not living to see another sunrise. All these volatile thoughts, compounded over the years, create a constant raging storm that needs to be let loose.

Without a word, Hawke leads him toward the nearby cot. It’s wider than a recruit’s with a cushioned bedroll on top. As someone with his rank, Anders has something similar, but he often falls asleep elsewhere, like passing out on the closest chair after operating for eighteen hours straight.

Hawke starts pulling at his clothes roughly, fingers tearing at the fabric with what could only be described as measured urgency. Anders swats the man’s hand away when a button comes loose, now dangling from a thread. He doesn’t have time to repair anything more that Hawke breaks, and a shipment of new uniforms is as lofty dreaming as the end to the war.

They finish undressing in silence, both folding their uniforms perfectly as they’ve learned in basic training. Hawke’s arms encircle Anders’ slim waist, pulling him back until they’re flush together. He can feel Hawke’s hardening length pushing up against his ass, grinding in impatience.

A hot, wet mouth finds the tendon running from Anders’ shoulder to his neck, perpetually tense since the whole war began. Teeth tease the skin there before biting into the muscle, _hard_. Hawke is nothing but rough, taking what he wants and drinking in every whimper and plea Anders makes.

He bites harder and Anders arches against him and keens, feeling the sharp sting of his teeth and the wet trail of blood trickle down his shoulder. Hawke has a thirst for it, blood shed by his own hands, and it’s gotten him far. Anders enjoys it just as much, seeing as the pain helps him feel clear, more alive in a place that feels so dead already―but he never hesitates to voice his disapproval.

“Easy,” Anders hisses through clenched teeth. “I’m running low on antiseptic.”

Hawke grunts in response, briefly licking the wound before trailing his mouth along Anders’ shoulder, latching onto the sensitive skin near his hairline. Large hands roam his abdomen, calloused fingertips rough against the soft skin below his navel. The motions are gentle, almost as if to subdue him, but Anders knows not to be fooled. 

Hawke is no gentle man.

Moments later, the tent whirls around him as Anders finds himself being spun in a crude circle. Hands settle firmly on his hips, pushing him back until his knees hit the edge of the cot. Hawke follows him down, catching himself on his hands while Anders’ back slams onto the colonel’s modest bedroll.

Hawke wastes no time fishing a small tub of lubricant from beneath the pillow, twisting the cap off before tossing it aside. He dips two fingers into the grease, gathering a large portion of the slippery substance on his fingertips.

Bracing himself on one forearm, Hawke skims his slicked hand down Anders’ stomach, teasing over his cock and balls before finding their target. Anders’ legs spread instinctively, knees hiking up the sides of Hawke’s body to hook around his back. His fingers dig into the scratchy linen beneath him, holding on as he waits at Hawke’s whim.

Hawke dips his head, mouth immediately finding the bite from before. His lips skim over the wound, ignoring how Anders winces in pain and latching onto the skin right above it. He starts sucking hard at the flesh, no doubt aiming to leave dark purple bruises that Anders will have to cover up for a few days.

Anders lets out a shaky exhale, tilting his head back to fully expose his neck. He feels like a wild dog, free and powerful in his own right but willing to roll over and submit to the alpha of the pack. He draws in a sharp breath when Hawke pushes in, skipping right to using two fingers. The stretch stings slightly, but Anders’ attention is drawn away by Hawke’s mouth biting one of his nipples. Teeth scrape across sensitive skin, tongue flicking across the hardening bud.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, Anders tangles his fingers further into the sheets. “Hawke, please,” he begs, feeling his cock lay heavy and neglected against his stomach.

Hawke doesn’t respond to his plea, instead adds a third finger and switches his attention to Anders’ other nipple. It’s clear that the colonel is also losing his patience, hastily fingering Anders open as he hungrily teases him with his teeth. He tugs on the delicate flesh, easily wringing a cry from Anders’ lips.

“Hawke!” Anders keens, feeling his arousal consume him with the unbridled rage of a wildfire. Enough with fingers and mouths, he needs Hawke’s cock like a man thirsting for water in the desert. “Fuck me already!”

The colonel pauses his ministrations, cocking an eyebrow at him. “What’s this? A Lieutenant Colonel who thinks he can order his superior around?”

“Hawke, _please,_ ” Anders huffs indignantly, thumping one of his fists on the bedroll. “I’m more than ready.”

“Then go on,” Hawke says, looking him directly in the eyes. He lowers his voice into a growl, a tone that Anders can feel in his very bones. Their faces are close, so close that Anders can look at nothing else but Hawke. “ _Tell me what you want._ ”

“Want your cock,” Anders mumbles breathlessly, the words pouring clumsily over his lips. He hisses through clenched teeth as Hawke tweaks one of his now sensitive nipples. “Fuck! I need it. Fuck me, please!”

The corner of Hawke’s lips turn up in a gratified smirk, eyes darkening their gaze. He withdraws his fingers, grabbing onto one of Anders’ thighs and digging his fingers into the lean, sinewy muscle. “Hands and knees.”

Anders quickly obeys, flipping over and lifting himself onto all fours. The cot is hard and unforgiving beneath him, but his comfort is the least of his concern. Hawke’s fingers return, adding more lubricant to Anders’ ass before slicking a fist over his own length.

Hawke lines himself up, the oiled head of his cock pressing to Anders’ rim. Grasping hold of Anders’ hip, Hawke pushes in quickly, sinking in to the hilt without ceremony. The thick cock filling Anders makes his head roll forward with a gasp. Hawke is by no means a small man, and Anders thinks for a brief moment that he might have been a little hasty in ending the preparation.

“Fuck,” Hawke grunts, still seated deep inside. “You’re tight today.”

Anders nods in agreement, biting his lip as he urges his body to relax. His ass clenches tightly around Hawke’s pulsing length, measuring his breaths until they’re steady. He tests the water, pushing his hips back until he feels his ass become flush with Hawke’s hips.

“Ready?” Hawke asks from behind him, both hands curling around Anders’ hips. He doesn’t wait for a ‘yes,’ knowing Anders would voice the answer if it were anything but. 

Hawke begins thrusting languidly, drawing his cock out further each time only to plunge back in. He falls into an expert rhythm, soon pistoning into Anders with little restraint. Fingers dig into the thin flesh over his hip bones, destined to leave ten oblong bruises sprinkled across his skin. Strong hands begin pulling him back with every thrust, rocking Anders on his hands and knees to the same staccato beat.

When Hawke’s cock finally angles to brush over his prostate, Anders moans as his head drops between his shoulders―sweaty strands of gold hair hanging around his face. He focuses on his breathing, but each inhale and exhale are prematurely punctuated by the thrust of the thick cock filling him.

Every hiss and gasp spurs Hawke on, adding to his determination to wring every last noise from Anders’ lips. Letting go of one of his hips, Hawke skims a hand up Anders’ back, fingers circling over each and every knob of his spine. For a moment, it feels like a soothing gesture, until those fingers tangle in his hair and _pull_.

Anders gasps as Hawke’s grip tightens, back arching beneath the colonel. Another moan escapes his lips, amber eyes fluttering closed as Hawke uses the new leverage to fuck him faster, deeper than before. His scalp tingles, adding to the electric pleasure that sweeps through his body. It makes him weak in the knees, but Hawke won’t let him fall.

Hawke’s other hand runs up his side, fingers finding a nipple and closing around it. He flicks his thumb over the hardening peak, rolling the nub beneath it before sharply pinching it. Anders arches again, toes curling as he begins to lose himself in Hawke’s touches. The colonel knows how to drive him out of his mind, always pulling and pushing Anders to his will.

In these instances, Anders will readily bend beneath Hawke’s hands, give into his desires and put himself at the colonel’s mercy. It might be fraternization, but Anders doesn’t know where he’d be without this kind of outlet, without someone like Hawke to steady him, to hold him, to fuck him into oblivion.

He lets out a yelp when Hawke twists his nipple hard, breathing through his nostrils as Hawke’s hand moves further south for new conquests. Anders jolts beneath him as a strong hand grabs his length, fingers tightening around it until it edges on painful. Anders begs, to both stop and keep going, feeling himself getting closer to the intoxicating exhilaration they’re both chasing. The man hums appreciatively in Anders’ ear, a deep rumble that sends shivers that pool in his groin.

Anders gasps when Hawke yanks on a handful of his hair, pulling him off his hands until he’s balanced on his knees, spine arched against Hawke’s chest. He feels as though he’s bared his neck to the wolf, but it would be false to say that the wolf hasn’t already claimed him.

A single broad hand gather Anders’ wrists behind him, strong fingers clamping around them in an iron grip. Hawke pushes them toward the center of his back, locking Anders’ arms tight to his body. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t fight back, but instead relishes in the feeling of restraint beneath Hawke’s command. Though left unspoken, it’s all part of their arrangement―Hawke works out the stress of his commanding position while Anders lets someone else take over for a while, to distract him from his own bleak responsibilities.

And Colonel Hawke has proven himself an excellent distraction.

With his arms and head under the colonel’s complete control, Anders can do nothing more than take everything Hawke gives him. He’s relentless, hips slapping against Anders’ ass as he pounds into him in a merciless rhythm. Anders lets out a bitten-off whimper each time that Hawke’s cock brushes over his prostate, no longer able to keep himself from reacting. People will hear them, if they haven’t already, but Hawke and Anders have long learned that their subordinates will not betray their misdeeds.

In war, you look after your brothers-in-arms. Everyone has something illicit that keeps them going―it’s a necessity in order to endure this war. It strengthens their bond to look the other way when another breaks code, as long as it isn’t putting anyone in danger or risking their collective cause.

Hawke finally lets go of his hair, sending a strong tingling feeling flaring from his head to the tips of his fingers and toes. Anders has half a mind to ask him to do it again, already missing the pain mixed with pleasure when the man does it, except it’s clear that Hawke has other plans.

Broad fingers sweep over the slope where his neck and shoulder meet, fingertips skimming across the sharp jut of his collarbone until his hand wraps around the strong column of his neck. He pauses there, making Anders float thoughtlessly in anticipation.

Hawke squeezes, just enough to hurt but not enough to cut off his airway completely. Instinctively, Anders’ own hand flies up to curl around the colonel’s wrist, neither holding the hand there nor attempting to pull it away. He swallows several times, feeling his neck bob beneath Hawke’s grip. His unattended cock hangs heavy and hard between his legs―aching to be touched, handled by those thick calloused fingers currently enclosing around his throat.

Anders’ eyes drift closed, giving himself over wholly to Hawke and his ministrations. The sensations coil deep beneath his stomach like water reaching a boil. His orgasm builds inside, not quite boiling over the edges just yet. Only a little more, a little further...

Hawke’s other hand sweeps over his abdomen, leaving a path of prickling skin in its wake. It’s like electricity when fingers finally close around his cock, letting it slide through his slicked fist in tandem with his thrusts.

Like the last puzzle piece clicking into place, Anders feels himself reaching the crest of his pleasure. The way his hand tightens around Hawke’s wrist isn’t meant to be a signal, but Hawke grumbles “me too” against his ear. The man slams home a few more times before they lose themselves completely―Anders coming first, spilling out onto the sheets while his whole body shudders through the aftershocks. Moments after, he can feel the man’s pulsing cock pumping hot come inside him.

Hawke’s hands fall away, freeing Anders to fill his lungs with sweat-stale air once more. His head feels light and the room spins slightly for a moment, but his mind feels more clear than it’s been for days. Hawke pulls out silently, withdrawing his touch entirely as he settles back against the bed. Sex always leaves the colonel satiated and tired, but Anders knows there’s no use seeking an afterglow with Hawke.

With tensions relieved, Anders wastes no time before taking advantage of Hawke’s washbasin. The colonel has his own water heater―one of the many perks of running the encampment single-handedly―and Anders indulges when he’s able. He runs one of Hawke’s damp flannels over his sweaty skin, using the soap the colonel’s sister sends him every once in awhile. It smells faintly of lavender and clove, reminding Anders of better times before the war, before necessities became so scarce that even having soap is considered a luxury. A proper bath is difficult to come by so near to the front lines.

Now, he can only hope there’s no emergency to call him away from this.

At the end of his bath, Hawke still rests on the cot nearby. His body is spread along the length of the bedroll, gloriously nude except for the thin sheet just barely covering his hips. Muscles gleaming with sweat rolling down his abdomen with every deep breath, his cock lying heavy and spent against the sheet. A lit cigarette sits perched between two fingers, raising it to his mouth occasionally to take a drag. The colonel hasn’t said a word since the completion, instead his eyes are trained on the olive-drab canvas hanging above their heads and continually taking heavy inhales. 

The smoke Hawke bellows toward the tent’s ceiling is a small comfort to Anders. There’s something about it that settles him, rights him when he feels restless and eases his perpetually tense nerves. He didn’t smoke before joining the military, but war… it changes people.

It changes _everything_.

Finally feeling clean―or as clean as one can be this far from civilization and running water―Anders forgoes dressing for the meantime. His clothes are still dirty, smelling like stale sweat and coppery blood from the day’s work, but he feels better now that he’s bathed.

He walks over to Hawke, sitting down cross-legged beside the cot since his legs are sore and shaky. The colonel’s eyes flicker to him, looking more tired than hard, like the weight of the war is finally settling over him now that the sun has set beyond the horizon. For a brief moment, Anders wonders if he’s the only one to see Hawke like this, fatigued and melancholy instead of his usual confident, indestructible self.

Outside the tent, there is movement―quiet sleepless voices speaking and the sounds of footsteps trudging through the mud, but inside silence hangs thick in the air. Anders leans against the cot, perching an arm along the edge of the bedroll. If the movement registers in Hawke’s attention, it doesn’t show.

It isn’t until Anders wraps his long fingers around Hawke’s thick wrist that something in the man changes, though his eyes still drift upward. Anders brings the hand to his mouth, taking a few drags from the neatly rolled cigarette clasped between his fingers. Hawke lets him, sharing what is essentially valuable currency within the camp. So close to the front lines, cigarettes are difficult to come by and unlike most soldiers, Anders doesn’t have anyone back home to send him a pack.

The spiced smoke floods his lungs, spreading relief throughout his worn and tired body. Hawke wrung most of the tension from him earlier, but the tobacco’s calming effect still helps him considerably. He breathes out, smoke streaming from between parted lips toward the ceiling.

The tent smells deeply of smoke and sex, two delights they don’t get to indulge in too often, and it would need to be aired out soon before it soaks into every available surface. Anders can’t muster the energy to do anything about it just yet, but instead leans in for another huff of Hawke’s cigarette.

“Colonel Hawke,” says a voice from just outside the tent’s entrance. “I have an urgent message to deliver.”

Hawke doesn’t move from his spot, only tilting his head toward the tent flaps that thankfully stay closed. He withdraws his hand from Anders’ grasp, taking another breath of smoke before answering.

“What is it?” he replies in the throaty tone his voice takes on during sex. The colonel doesn’t try to hide what they’ve just done, only ensures that his men understand that his words are always coming from a commanding officer.

“Actually, it’s for Lieutenant Colonel Surgeon Anders.”

Sighing, Anders rises to his feet and quickly shimmies his pants over his hips, grabbing the nearest shirt―which happens to be Hawke’s―and pulls it over his shoulders, only bothering to thread one button through the fabric for modesty’s sake.

_‘So much for a peaceful moment,’_ Anders thinks, frowning over being sought out in the colonel’s tent when the signs were clear to leave them be, if only for a half hour more. The soldier, a private in the communications division and the appointed nighttime messenger, keeps his eyes cast elsewhere when Anders opens the tent flap.

The envelope is official stationary, straight from the desk of the General’s office in Central Command. The wax seal has been damaged but not unbroken, and Anders offers a meagre word of thanks before dismissing the private outright.

The letter begins as most do―addressing him by his name, rank, and serial number―meticulously typed in black ink in neat rows. The rest of the message reads like a loving note from one’s grandmother, though Anders has become very adept at deciphering the code in his head quickly.

Upon decoding the last word, the full gravity of the message’s new meaning settles over him. When he swears loudly, Hawke flashes him a stern look.

Anders sighs. Such news would have to be submitted to the colonel anyway.

“We won’t be receiving any medical shipments for several weeks.”

Hawke grunts, setting his jaw as his face hardens back into that of his usual self. “Then we’ll have to make do.”

“You mean _I’ll_ have to make do!” Anders snaps furiously, rubbing the bridge of his nose between two fingers as he collects himself. There’s already pressure building up behind his eyes, thoughts reeling over the dwindling inventory list he keeps perpetually updated in his mind. He can feel the colonel’s eyes on him, burning into his skin like the sun. No one else would get away with such a disrespectful response to their superior officer; Hawke wouldn’t tolerate it.

Instead of doling out the consequences Anders undoubtedly deserves, Hawke simply arches an eyebrow and silently waits.

Hanging his head, Anders takes a deep steadying breath―the type he takes before slicing through major organs in search of a bullet.

“We hardly have enough as it is,” he confesses. Hawke knows all supplies are running low, but Anders has been careful to make his fellow soldiers believe he isn’t out of life-saving materials. At this rate, the next exchange of soldiers returning from the front lines wouldn’t have a chance in surviving their wounds.

Hawke only hums in reply, huffing again on the dying cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's art commissioned from @kayaczek on tumblr, who I am always happy to work with.
> 
> [This fic's (art) tag on my Tumblr](http://storybookhawke.tumblr.com/tagged/handers-war-au)


	2. Chapter 2

Days pass quietly, aside from the pained moans from the recovery tent and the distant sounds of bombs and gunfire. The colonel leaves unexpectedly with a sizable company of soldiers. It leaves the encampment eerily quiet, unsettling to the men who were too injured to go. Anders is left with other crucial camp staff―the cook and communication and strategic specialists, who generally keep themselves busy.

Anders wishes he could go with them, pick up a gun and stand shoulder to shoulder to the men he works so hard to keep alive. He’s been through the same basic combat training as every other soldier in their army, and they need every bit of help they can get. He knew when he joined the army that he would be saving lives instead of doing the fighting, but there’s something small inside him that still yearns to fulfill every soldier’s basic duty.

It isn’t that he hasn’t tried to join the fight, but rather Colonel Hawke has always ordered him to stay behind. His healing talents would be more effective on the field, where he could save more lives before they become corpses at the bottom of a muddy grave.

At night, he he can hear the shooting, the bombs dropping just miles away. The sounds come closer everyday, no doubt destroying the area’s train tracks, supply lines, and war factories. One would never be able to tell who bombed who, though when planes soar over the encampment, Anders is usually able to tell if it’s one of their own just by listening to the sound of the engine and propellers.

All the noise brings many of them to shell shock, causing short-lived panic of those who wake still believing they’re at the front line. Anders does his best to comfort, to see them through the horrors they’ve seen until they’re able to rest again.

There isn’t much he can do, completely unable to give these men peace of mind. The medical community doesn’t know much about this unseen condition, so all Anders can do is watch as the soldiers suffer quietly. Those who don’t yet experience shell shock still have times of panic, though completely reasonable. There’s always uncertainty to be had―what if the enemy finds the encampment? They’re hardly defended, only hidden, and even one bomber could mean the end of their lives.

Anders has been prepared to never see his homeland again, but the fear of a gruesome death is something a soldier can never shake.

Several days later, there’s a commotion from outside that draws Anders from his tent. Anders scrambles to grab the loaded rifle he stashes beneath his cot, preparing himself for an ambush before rushing out into the camp.

There’s no sign of enemy soldiers anywhere, making Anders double take before his eyes settle on a gathering crowd of soldiers near the center of the camp. It’s clearly a fight, a squabble between men that has escalated into fisticuffs. Anders uncocks his rifle, slinging it over his back as he marches directly into the fray.

Though the crowd is about thirty soldiers, there are only a handful of men who are actually fighting. Anders skillfully dodges fists, swatting them away as the fight’s onlookers part for him.

“Break it up!” Anders shouts, unable to keep his anger hidden. It’s been a long week for all of them, and he understands that tensions are high and there’s little to do without their commanding officer present. “I said, _break it up!_ ”

Upon hearing the surgeon’s voice, the group of soldiers settle considerably, a few of them taking a few half-hearted swings at each other before backing off. Several of the soldiers on the outside of the crowd already move back to where they were sitting by the fires now that there was nothing left to watch.

Anders points a finger at the five soldiers he saw doing the majority of the fighting. He’ll have to get their accounts to write up a full report for the colonel when he returns. “To the command tent. Now.”

One of them, Major Meeran, turns to him and wipes the splatter of blood from his split lip. He scoffs, leering at Anders. “I don’t have to listen to you. I only answer to Colonel Hawke.”

Anders frowns and straightens his posture, rising to his full height. He may not be as stoutly-built as most soldiers, but he has height on nearly everyone in the encampment. Meeran’s eyes narrow at the slight movement, doing his best not to look perturbed by the subtle display.

“In case you have forgotten,” Anders begins in his most commanding tone, loud enough for all nearby soldiers to hear. If he has to make an example out of this man, he will. “When Colonel Hawke is gone, I am the next highest ranking official in this camp.”

Meeran stays silent, glaring.

“Now, to the command tent or I will write you up for insubordination.”

Writing the report takes the rest of Anders’ afternoon, time that would have been better spent checking up on soldiers’ injuries and sanitizing the surgery station. The five men each gave their account in detail, with Meeran’s differing wildly from the rest. It’s clear that he started the conflict, but Anders decides to let the men cool down before any consequences are given.

Just before suppertime, Anders hears more loud voices from outside his tent. He groans, putting down his medical tools he was meticulously polishing and stepping outside, expecting to see another fight.

Instead, he sees a group of soldiers marching through the main entrance of the camp, led by Colonel Hawke himself.

Soldiers walk behind their commander, staggering into the encampment in a slow-moving river of men. Some are more injured than others, and soldiers at rest wander out from their tents to help those who can hardly keep themselves upright. Hawke is helping carry a man who is missing part of his leg, clearly caught by a grenade.

Anders feels relief surge through his body upon seeing Hawke, thankful that the colonel has returned in one piece. He’s still unprepared for the day that Hawke comes back from the front lines critically injured, or worse, not returning at all.

Hawke comes to a stop two strides from Anders, gently easing the injured man onto an awaiting stretcher before two soldiers carry him off to the surgery tent. Their eyes connect for a long moment and Anders feels unintelligible words bubble in his gut.

The colonel simply heaves a heavy pack from his shoulder, holding it out in offering to Anders. He quickly looks inside, seeing it’s filled to the brim with gauze, bandages, and bottles of various chemical fluids. It isn’t enough to last them until their next shipment, but it’s enough to save many more lives until then.

“Thank you,” Anders says quietly, taking the pack from Hawke. The colonel doesn’t say a word in response, just nods curtly before stalking off to his private tent.

_‘Right,’_ Anders thinks, turning on his heel toward his medical tent. He has work to do.

Hours later―after countless surgeries, hundreds of stitches and dozens of bullet shards retrieved from soft innards―Anders is finally finished with his work. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, arms bloodied up to his elbows as his white physician coat is splattered with blood of many. No one died on his table today, for which Anders is both thankful and proud.

He’s busy cleaning the surgery table when he hears the soft sound of the tent flap opening and closing. Anders doesn’t have to look to know that the colonel has just entered the tent, but he glances over his shoulder anyway.

Freshly bathed and dressed in tan trousers and a thin cotton shirt, Hawke stands silently at the entrance of the surgical tent with his arms crossed. Anders looks over at him, no hiding the exhaustion in his eyes, and wondering for a brief moment if the colonel is looking for a quick fuck.

Hawke simply moves to sit on the only chair in the room, crossing his legs so that his ankle hooks over a knee. Anders continues to clean up the aftermath, dirtying several rags with the amount of blood lost during the few amputations he was forced to do that evening. He likes to think that he’s making Hawke wait, but deep down, he knows that the colonel doesn’t wait when he doesn’t want to.

If anything, sitting and watching him is exactly what Hawke wants.

When the operating table is clean, each tool is spotless, and all excess bandages and medicines are carefully stowed away in their proper places, Anders turns to face Hawke.

“Those supplies saved more than a few lives today,” Anders says, leaning his hip against the desk across from Hawke.

The colonel simply nods and gives him a one-shouldered shrug, as to say _‘I know.’_

Anders knows they were stolen, looted from some village unfortunate enough to be in Hawke’s warpath or possibly straight from the enemy’s supply trucks. At first, Anders would have cared about the casualties on the other side, but now he’s seen too much shit to care about the lives of the enemy.

There are hundreds of men under his care, and those are the only ones who matter anymore. Anders doesn’t have the energy to worry about anyone else.

Anders peers across the tent, pondering just what the mysterious colonel came for. The other man seems to pick up on it, letting out a heavy exhale of air trapped in his chest. Anders’ eye catches on the minuscule shift in Hawke’s expression, instantly putting him on alert.

“You’re injured,” Anders says, frowning as he closes the distance between them with a few, long-legged strides. He kneels on the ground before Hawke, placing his hands on the man’s upper arms to examine him for wounds.

“I’m fine,” Hawke says, trying to shrug off the surgeon’s attention.

“No, you’re not. Come over here,” Anders replies, hiding the satisfaction he feels when the colonel listens to his instructions.

Hawke sits patiently on the nearby cot as the doctor examines him, letting him do as he wishes. Anders moves the man’s arm this way and that, with only a quirk of his lips to tell him which position is painful.

After feeling satisfied with his examination, Anders stands and moves to stand behind the bed. He tells the colonel to lean forward, positioning one hand on the taut tendon connecting his neck and shoulder and the other on the solid but bruised mass of his arm. He doesn’t bother warning Hawke about the upcoming pain, merely sets the dislocated shoulder back into its socket without ceremony. Hawke hisses through his teeth at the impact, grumbling as he tests out the functionality of his shoulder. He rotates it in all directions, finding that it feels much better already.

“Take it easy on that shoulder,” Anders says, to which Hawke simply hums as he continues to stretch the limb. Anders jabs a finger into his chest, gaining the colonel’s attention again. “I mean it. Doctor’s orders.”

“Fine,” Hawke says, reaching up with his other arm to pull Anders into his lap. Anders goes down willingly at first, the physicality so familiar and needed, but then rationality overcomes him.

“No, no,” Anders says, wriggling in the man’s lap but ultimately unable to break from Hawke’s arm wrapped around his waist. “Not with your shoulder.”

The tent twirls in his field of vision, knocking the air from Anders’ lungs as Hawke twists them until he’s flat on his back on the bedroll and Anders is straddling his waist.

“Then you do the work,” Hawke says with a smoldering smirk, sliding his hand from the small of Anders’ back down over the swell of his ass, pushing the waistband down enough to tease a finger over the crease.

Anders shivers under the attention Hawke’s hand is giving him. He should be sending his commanding officer to rest, but then fingers dip lower, one teasing around his hole. They should at least move to Hawke’s private tent since anyone could walk into the medical tent at any moment, but once Hawke’s large hand squeezes his ass, all of Anders’ otherwise steely resolve melts away.

He makes quick work of his clothes, shedding just enough. He drops his olive-drab bottoms and underclothes to the floor beside the cot before undoing Hawke’s belt, impatiently tugging the man’s trousers to mid-thigh before getting too frustrated.

Hawke’s hands continue to roam Anders’ narrow hips and thighs, reaching around to grab another handful of his ass to pinch and squeeze. Before he can touch any more of his body, Anders seizes the colonel’s wrist, adjusting his hold when he sees Hawke wince in discomfort. He gently bends the injured arm over Hawke’s broad chest, palm over heart, in a sling position.

“Keep that there, or we aren’t doing this,” Anders says, ignoring how Hawke rolls his eyes but keeps the arm in position.

He reaches behind, giving Hawke’s cock a few dry pumps and feeling it start to get hard in his hand. Somewhere deep in his chest, Hawke gives a slight moan at the touch. His hips shift and adjust while Anders teases the man to full hardness with skilled fingers. His own cock hangs heavy between his legs, stirring in interest but at nowhere near the same rate as the colonel’s. 

Hawke grunts when he pulls his hands away, dark eyes sliding open to track Anders’ every movement as he leans over. Anders searches under the pillow beneath Hawke’s head for the small tub of petroleum jelly he’s been using as lubricant during his lonelier nights. He frowns when he comes up empty-handed, remembering that they’re still in the surgery tent, not his personal one.

The colonel is almost reluctant to let him go when he stands, his gaze never leaving Anders as he quickly searches the drawers near the operating table. Anders knows Hawke has an affinity for his ass, and he’s not opposed to giving him a show.

He finds the small tub in the back of a drawer, closing his fingers around the surgical lubricant tightly. Anders climbs back onto the cot, straddling Hawke’s thighs once again―except, this time, facing away from him. That earns him an appreciative growl of approval, a broad hand settling over the sharp jut of his hip in a firm grip.

Anders prepares himself quickly, going too fast with too many fingers. He doesn’t mind pain―in fact, he enjoys it when it’s used right―and he knows that Hawke’s patience will only stretch so far. Fingers brush across his prostate, sending a burst of electricity up his spine and to the low tingling growing beneath his stomach.

He quickly uses another scoop of grease to slick Hawke’s cock, smoothly pumping his fist over the man’s length. With his fingers encircling the base, Anders lines himself up with the tip. The tip breaches him slowly, Anders’ thighs trembling as he struggles to keep himself from descending too quickly. He likes to feel every inch, lowering himself down Hawke’s cock teasingly slow. With such hurried preparation, the colonel’s thick girth nearly splits him apart―though the painful stretch is exactly what Anders wanted.

The hand previously settled on his hip has wandered down to take a handful of his ass, spreading his cheeks apart for the view. Anders is almost envious of the man’s perspective―just the mental image of his ass taking Hawke’s impressive length is enough to get him off most days.

Rocking his hips slowly, Anders takes Hawke in, inch by inch at an agonizingly slow pace. Hawke’s cock spreads him wider than his fingers ever could, filling him to the brim and then some. Finally their bodies become flush, feeling the heat of each other’s flesh.

Though he’s impatient, Anders is determined to string out their pleasure for as long as he can. It isn’t often that Hawke surrenders this power to him, to be ridden, and Anders isn’t about to waste the opportunity away by being unwilling to wait.

When he starts to move, tension begins to build in his muscles. Anders’ thighs begin to shake and shudder as he lifts himself up Hawke’s length, only to languidly lower himself again. His hand runs across the flat of his stomach, fingers curling around his erection and lazily pumping over his length. From the corner of his eye, Anders can see Hawke’s hand, the one not braced across his chest, tangled in the bed linen. He can tell that the colonel wants more, faster, harder, but Anders doesn’t feel like giving in just yet.

Tilting his hips, it isn’t long until Hawke’s cock brushes across his prostate, sending a slight shiver up his spine. He mimics the move again and again, dropping his head back to let out a gasping moan. In this position, Hawke’s cock pushes deep into him, causing Anders’ hands to drop to low on his stomach in the attempt to feel it through his flesh.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Hawke says from behind him, hissing through gritted teeth. The colonel’s good hand tightens around his hip, squeezing more finger-shaped bruises into his skin that will linger for days.

With just one word as encouragement, Anders quickly finds a rhythm and speed that isn’t too strenuous for either of them. It’s more sloppy than he’d like it to be, but it’s been a long, exhausting day for the both of them and he has to be conscious of the other man’s injury. Sweat is already beading down his chest, his whole body heating up to feverish temperatures from the exertion.

His thighs stretch and strain as he rides Hawke, harder and faster with each passing minute. Every inch of his body is flushed, with heat and tension coiling tight inside. Over the sounds of his own panting, Anders hears Hawke’s breath hitch and catch in his throat.

Anders slows his movement to catch his breath, with the intention of continuing in a moment or two, but Hawke’s patience has plainly run out. Grasping tightly onto Anders’ waist, Hawke thrusts up into him with a snap of his hips. His cock pushes in deep into his tight ass, feeling the burning of the stretch. Anders throws his head back and gasps, unable to hide his reaction quick enough. Hawke’s other hand, the one meant to be braced across his chest, slides up the knobs of his spine until thick fingers entangle in his hair. He grips Anders’ scalp firmly, pulling his head back in a sharp tug.

Between the hand holding his hip and the one in his hair, Anders’ whole body arches under the sudden change in attention. He reaches a hand behind him to brace himself on Hawke’s stomach, unable to trust his own body to keep balance. Hawke’s hips piston up into him, picking up the pace and quietly biting back grunts as he bucks wildly into Anders.

He feels the dynamic shift between them, but then Anders remembers that it was foolish to think he had any control in the first place.

“Your―your shoulder,” Anders says, glancing over his own between moans. Hawke could do more damage to the ligaments like this―but the thought of stopping to demand the colonel to adjust positions disintegrates as Hawke gives him a particularly rough, deep thrust aimed directly at his prostate.

Hawke doesn’t acknowledge his concern, only continues fucking Anders hard and fast from beneath. His arms stay locked, using his hands to pull Anders’ hips down to meet his thrusts.

The tension grows, coiling tighter and tighter until his skin tingles and a pool of heat gathers deep beneath his stomach. It’s only moments before Anders comes undone, the tension springs forth out of his control. He lets out a shout that undoubtedly could be heard around camp as his otherwise neglected cock spurts onto the sheets between Hawke’s legs.

The colonel isn’t too far behind, his relentless thrusts turning sporadic as he pulls almost all the way out before pushing right back in again. Under his hand, Anders can feel the taut abdominal muscles contract as Hawke reaches the peak.

“Fuck!” Hawke grits through his teeth, seemingly the only word he’s capable of uttering tonight. His fingers tighten, squeezing so hard that Anders knows the bruises will be bright purple in the morning. Anders can feel the come flood from the man’s cock, pulsing hot and fast inside him.

Finally, Hawke relaxes his hold on Anders, fingers lingering before releasing Anders completely. His hip and scalp tingles, sending electricity just beneath his skin where Hawke touched him. He feels boneless and weak, the aftershocks of his release rolling like the tide through his limbs. 

All too quickly, the exhaustion from before washes over him. He pulls off of Hawke, not able to summon the energy to retrieve a wet rag. Instead, he settles next to the man on the cot that’s far too narrow for two grown men, naturally draping an arm across Hawke’s stomach.

This intimacy is foreign to them―usually going separate ways after sex―but considering the day’s events, they both seem content with just laying there in silence. Anders finds himself drifting off to sleep, so deep it’s unhindered by nightmares that plague him almost daily.

When he wakes, he’s been wiped clean and tucked beneath the wool blanket. Alone.

As always.


	3. Chapter 3

Autumn falls swiftly over the landscape―growing colder and harsher by each passing night. Dead recruits are replaced with fresh-faced, inexperienced boys plucked off the streets. Anders finds it growing more difficult to speak to any of them, since most will end up on his table or six feet under. Food grows scarce, and he is forced to stretch his supplies thinner and thinner every day.

And yet, the war goes on.

“Haven is lost,” comes shocking news from the communications tent. The messenger sent to address Hawke is barely a man quivering in his boots before the colonel. “Bombed, with no survivors.”

From where he sits in the command tent as the second-in-command, Anders’ eyes dart to Hawke, watching him carefully as they receive this information. The colonel stands at his full height, towering and intimidating, with his arms folded over his chest and an austere glare in his eyes.

Haven was a major control center, so deeply enshrouded in mystery that even low ranking generals didn’t know where it was. The loss of important officials and leaders will be devastating, spelling catastrophic ramifications for their side in the war. It’s almost unthinkable that the location has been already found and destroyed by the enemy, almost as if...

At that very moment, Anders is certain that the same thought is going through Hawke’s mind: there are spies hidden among Central Command.

Anders’ heart stops as the messenger hands over an official letter stamped by the Field Marshal himself, announcing that Hawke has been promoted to brigadier general. Never before has Anders seen Hawke hesitate, but the man’s hand shakes ever so slightly as he reaches for the envelope. The promotion, usually something to be celebrated, comes as an unfortunate occasion following a near irrecoverable blow.

While Hawke reads the letter and its entailing intelligence, Anders dismisses the messenger and points him toward the mess hall for a quick supper. When he returns, Hawke is facing away from him, but Anders can already see the difference a few minutes has made.

It seems that the news is setting in, becoming visible in the lines of Hawke’s body and how he holds himself. He leans over the table, bracing a hand on its surface for support as he reads the letter over for a second, perhaps third time. It’s clearly already affecting Hawke―the heavy weight of responsibility on his shoulders increasing, a weight that Anders feels he’s the only one who can see it in the now brigadier general. Even more men are looking to Hawke for leadership, to make the right decisions to keep them alive and win the war.

“Alert the encampment that there is an assembly in three minutes,” Hawke says, knowing that Anders is there to hear his order. He sounds unusually composed, having reigned himself together at last. “It’s time to inform them of the changes.”

“Yes, Brigadier General,” Anders replies with the man’s new rank, giving a curt salute before leaving the tent.

Over the next several weeks, Anders sees just how that burden grows and changes―changing Hawke along with it. The man hardens even more, becoming a fierce force to be reckoned with, but also becoming a man who leads his men into battle only to return with less and less. Just as every death affects Anders, the profuse loss of life is wearing on the man.

Hawke’s workload doubles and the man can almost constantly be found meeting with visiting generals and colonels, plotting out their region’s attack strategy in secret. Anders watches him from afar, keeping an eye on the brigadier general out of more than just professional concern.

It’s past midnight when Anders leaves the warmth of the medical tent. He pulls his jacket tightly around himself, cursing the nation’s harsh winter. It took him an hour to make his rounds, checking in on his wounded patients and providing pain relief and medicine to those in the most need. Most complained about the cold―cold fingers, cold feet, cold ears and noses―and he didn’t know how to explain they were out of blankets and that the weather was only going to get worse.

The encampment is silent as he makes his way to his personal tent, determined to get a few hours of sleep on his actual bed rather than falling asleep in a chair. The campfires are burned down to embers, just barely enough to heat the men who have watch duty that night. One man sits cross-legged with a rifle on his lap, giving Anders a solitary but respectful nod as he passes.

Just through the dark, Anders can see light coming from the brigadier general’s command tent, warm lantern light streaming through the flap that moves in the breeze. It’s much past the witching hour, and Hawke has been burning the candle at both ends every night that Anders can recall since the day of the brigadier general’s promotion.

Reluctantly abandoning the idea of a soft bedroll and a warm blanket, Anders changes his course and heads straight toward Hawke’s tent. He listens first but there’s nothing but silence, then knocks on the pole holding the tent up.

“It’s Anders,” he adds after the knock.

“Come in,” comes Hawke’s voice.

The tent is unusually warm, the result of a lantern lit for hours past the encampment’s curfew, and the air is stale. Seemingly unable to take a break, Hawke is still dressed in his full uniform, even a full day after he’s returned from leading a special mission unbeknownst to even Anders. The man stays bent over a large table, eyes fixed on the topographical map of the front lines. He doesn’t look up when Anders enters, only moving a small flagged marker from one corner of the map to another.

Anders comes to stand next to the brigadier general, standing shoulder to shoulder. With the addition of new intelligence the layout of the map changes everyday. There’s a small collection of markers, each symbolizing a battalion, lined up along the base of the mountains just beside where Hawke’s fingertips rest.

A chequered retreat.

Anders frowns. It’s unlike Hawke to be playing with defensive strategies, as the man usually favors offensive attacks that gain land and resources. He isn’t the type to back down, to cower in the protection of his men...

Something catches Anders’ eye. He clears his throat, sliding his hand across the map to point to an empty space beyond the mountains. Hawke seems to snap out of his trance of concentration, tilting his head toward Anders’ voice. “Where’s the Fifty-First Outpost?”

“Killed or captured.”

The bluntness of his tone causes Anders to blink, a few moments passing before fully absorbing the information. A ‘Killed or Captured’ declaration meant there was no hope, that the army wouldn’t put any efforts into rescuing lives or retrieving bodies until the war is over. And for a mountain base to be decimated so easily meant that the enemy was growing more powerful by the day.

Anders can think of a hundred questions― _When did this happen? What does this mean for our northern front? Just how many men were lost?_ ―but a knock against the tent’s metal pole prevents him from bringing any of them to voice.

“Brigadier General,” comes the voice of the camp’s cook. “I’m just about done with serving supper. Would you like your meal now?”

“Nothing for me, please,” Hawke answers, not lifting his gaze from the map.

“But ser,” the cook begins, his tone turning concerned through the tent flap. It’s too dark to see the shadow of the man through the canvas, but Anders knows he’s hovering just inches away. A bit of a gossip, that man, but also very caring. “You have yet to eat―”

“Nothing for me,” Hawke snaps, loud and harsh enough that the cook scurries away without another word.

Anders turns to Hawke, slamming his hand down in an empty spot in the middle of the war plans, knocking over a few markers and blocking many locations from view. Hawke grunts and glares up at him.

“You should be eating,” Anders says, using the same voice he uses for when he has to give treatment instructions to the most stubborn of soldiers. But it has little effect on Hawke.

“Food supply is low, and will be for a while,” Hawke says plainly, as if Anders isn’t already constantly conscious of the situation.

Anders’ eyes narrow. That isn’t a good enough excuse, not for a commanding officer to go without eating for a day. “You need to keep up your strength.”

“Like you’re one to talk!” Hawke barks, eyes tearing away from his work and settling on Anders. His usually calm demeanor has snapped, but isn’t yet a wildfire but only a burning flame. “You eat nearly once per day, if that.”

Anders freezes. It sounds like an accusation, but he knows what the man says is true. He never meant to eat so little, but with his long work hours and the food supply level constantly in the back of his mind, it’s easy to forget the hunger that burns in his stomach.

“The men need you to lead―”

“And they need _you_ to keep them alive.”

Anders’ mouth snaps closed, turning his face away. Clearly this argument isn’t going anywhere. He rubs the bridge of his nose between two fingers, nursing the start of a headache. Brown eyes slide open again, settling on Hawke whose gaze is trained on something unseen across the room. “You’re exhausted.”

“Stop telling me what I am,” Hawke replies, just over a growl.

Anders ignores it, pinning the ferocity directed at him for hunger. They’re both responsible for the health and state of everyone in the camp, but it seems both he and Hawke have neglected themselves. “Sit down and I’ll go bring us something to eat.”

Anders slips from the tent without even a motion of approval or objection from his commanding officer, quickly seeking out the cook in the rear of the mess hall tent. He’s only able to get some leftover stew that’s barely warm and some bread rations, but it’s better than going without. Anders fills a canteen with boiled water before returning to the command tent.

Hawke sits on the bench near the wall, hunched over and head hung low as he rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks up as Anders approaches, looking more tired than anything else―as if all the anger and frustration had drained from him in the few minutes Anders was gone.

They eat their modest portions in silence, sitting side by side on the creaky wooden bench. The meal isn’t hot nor delicious, but it’s satisfying and Anders already feels better by the time he finishes his bowl of stew. It reminds him how he’s supposed to be a role model, so how can he take care of his soldiers if he can’t take care of himself?

Anders nibbles on his bread ration, stale and crumbling on his tongue, and glances at Hawke from the corner of his eye. The man has sagged even more, shoulders drooping as he quietly eats and stares vacantly at the dirt floor. Anders can see so many lines etched into the man’s face that weren’t there when they first met, many years ago. It’s like the weight is physically there on his shoulders, the invisible burden of this new promotion.

The conditions have been getting more bleak with every passing day, the first few flakes of snow falling earlier than usual. The weather has been cold and wet, grey so often that it feels like Anders hasn’t seen the sun in more than a week. It’s like the sky knows that the war is turning, and not in their favor.

A particularly long and heavy sigh captures Anders’ attention, rousing him from his thoughts and introspection. Hawke is nearly finished with his bowl, holding it between his large hands on his lap and staring down into its contents. The silence between them is heavy, not having opportunity to clear itself out after such a discussion. They both know they’re in the wrong, but there are still bigger things to worry about.

Anders sets the remains of his meal aside, slowly reaching behind Hawke and settling a hand on each shoulder. He starts flexing his fingers, working his thumbs into the muscle made rock-hard from stress. Hawke must be in near constant pain from such tension, unable to relax even for just a moment. His skin is covered in a sheen of drying sweat, but still Anders wants to lean forward and kiss the nape of the man’s neck―but alas, he resists the temptation.

The ensuing minutes are long, filled with a silence so palpable Anders feels it in every breath he takes. A change in movement, a subtle touch brings him out of his thoughts. He looks down, eyes focusing on where Hawke’s hand has risen to his shoulder, threading his fingers between Anders’ own and squeezing.

They hold onto each other for a time that feels never ending.

It’s a sleepless few weeks, where the sound of explosives hitting the solid earth grows louder as it edges ever closer to the encampment. It won’t be long until the enemy finds the encampment shrouded in the forest, either on purpose or by mistake. Anders keeps tabs on the soldiers under his care, paying close attention to the brigadier general’s shoulder. Hawke seems to be healing as expected, but Anders can tell it bothers the man on cold winter mornings.

With the 106th Company on their trek to the front lines to relieve the 85th for a week, the camp is quiet once more. Anders expects at least a squad’s worth of soldiers to have injuries needing his attention, but plans to take an hour’s time to catch up on his more private matters.

After closing the flap to his personal tent, Anders settles at the desk set up in the corner next to his cot. The lantern is running out of oil, but it catches flame when he holds a match to its wick, giving off just enough light for his plans. He opens up his footlocker, fingers running along the edges until he finds what he’s looking for.

The thick journal he pulls out is old and worn, pages with rough edges bound together by uneven stitches and discolored leather. He gingerly places it on his makeshift desk, careful of all the tokens and mementos he’s collected over the years stuck between the pages. There’s a folded up poster for a movie he saw on his first official leave, and a bar napkin with the name and number of a beautiful woman he met that very night but never called. There’s little slips of paper covered in doodles and scrawling handwriting―sent from the men he’s saved who now rest peacefully at home, thankful for giving them the chance to return to their loved ones. 

And lastly, a photograph of his family, now gone forever.

After fishing out an ink pen, Anders opens to a fresh page, savoring the clean slate awaiting his words. The last entry is from three months prior, a testament to just how little time Anders has to himself.

_‘23rd of Drakonis,’_ he begins, stopping only to underline it. He taps the pen against the paper, considering which thoughts are worth putting into words.

_‘Cold, with a perpetual blanket of snow on the ground. There’s currently a hundred and eight soldiers in the encampment, with sustained injuries to sixty-one of them. Twenty-eight require bed rest in the recovery tent. I have done what I can, which is to say not enough. The enemy gaining ground, I can feel it._

_Supplies are low―when aren’t they?―but there’s no word on any shipments that may be coming. I fear for the worst, that those who don’t perish in battle will die from starvation, or from drinking the tepid water that isn’t much more than mud. Infection kills more than artillery fire, and I am the only person left to battle it. I’m certain many lives could be saved if I were among the men at the front line, where I could stop the bleeding and infection before it can set in. The trenches are no place to bleed, nor to live._

_One week ago, a platoon of new soldiers arrived from the east. They’re all so young, with hope in their eyes and innocence in their hearts. It will be gone soon, and they will become like the rest of us―dazed, tired, struggling to grasp hold of the humanity slipping through our fingers like water. I try not to learn their names, but I always remember. Each loss is etched into the list I hold in my chest._

_Hawke has been made brigadier-general, but not at a low cost to him nor the military. He bears it well, but I can tell the position wears on him. ~~He hasn’t~~ ~~He won’t~~ He’s a private person, but it would help greatly if he could share the burden, if only just a little. It’s my duty to keep him in good health, but it’s nearly impossible when I can’t ensure his safety. One day a bullet will find his head or heart, or cause him some other untimely demise._

_I may fear my own death, but the only other fear this war has left me is being unable to reach Hawke when he’s dying._

_I have probably said too much.’_

Anders wonders if he should strike out everything mentioning his commanding officer, knowing if anyone found his journal, he’d be court-martialed and dishonorably discharged. It’s one thing to release stress and resolve tension between two soldiers, but when it’s between two superior officers, it’s an entirely different game. Anders knows he would be found in the wrong, harboring more feelings for Hawke than the man has in return. It hurts to think about it, but it’s better that these feelings go unrequited.

_‘Lastly,’_ Anders continues, if only to make sure his journal entry doesn’t end with such unseemly statements about his commanding officer. ‘ _Upon receiving notice from the Surgeon General, I have recently begun the practice of blood transfusions, which has been a success. However, the anticoagulation agent―sodium citrate {Na3C6H5O7}―is not yet on the regular shipment register. A colleague notes that he gets regular shipments of it from central via train, but I am not so lucky. The distance between camp and proper civilization means the difference between life and death, it seems.’_

Putting his pen down, Anders closes his journal and sets it aside. His eyes linger on it, pondering if he should just burn it instead. It seems worthless at times, writing down one’s thoughts with no audience, but there’s nothing else―no one to write―to keep him occupied. Its contents, if read between the lines, could serve as evidence in a trial that ends not only his career but his life. Using it as kindling would be safer, in the long run.

Even so, he keeps it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> noncon here

The weather has taken a turn for the worse, it seems―the perpetually grey sky pouring rain over them all throughout the day. When the night comes, everything turns to a solid sheet of ice. Anders is having a difficult time staving off the cold himself, not to mention keeping his recovering soldiers warm enough to heal.

“Almost there,” Anders says, gently pulling out the last stitches in one of his patients with a pair of forceps. He piles the pieces of silk on a clean handkerchief, carefully removing them one by one under the light of a nearby lantern.

The holes remain, just a little, and the wound is ghastly, but otherwise it’s healing well. There were so many pieces of shrapnel in the man’s arm, Anders wasn’t even sure he could save it. He did in the end, with a little persistence and a lot of time. This man was the last on his table, so he was lucky Anders could take his time.

“How’s it look, Lieutenant Colonel?” The man asks as Anders leans in to examine his work. He’s a nice young man, still has a little glimmer of fear in his eyes that Anders knows will be replaced with a vacant stare in due time.

“Just Anders is fine in this company,” he replies, hoping to put the soldier at ease. “And everything looks fine, though you’ll scar. How does it feel?”

The man flexes his arm, appreciating being finally free of the dozens of sutures that previously covered his arm. “Still aches like no other, but better than before. I’ll be back to fighting-shape in no time! Thank you, doctor.”

Anders offers him a smile, a gesture that is meant to be comforting but he hopes the boy can’t tell it’s uneasy. He hasn’t seen this man on the battlefield, nor might he ever, but the chances are more likely that this man―this boy, really―won’t return to camp next time.

He pats the soldier’s leg one last time before gathering up his medical bag. Most recovering soldiers are sleeping, but those who are reading letters or books give him a solemn nod as he passes.

The rain has eased for the afternoon, leaving the camp shrouded in a misty fog reminiscent of a horror serial. Without his coat to warm him, Anders quickly moves toward Hawke’s personal tent, determined to corner the brigadier general to check on his shoulder before he disappears to the front again. He can never get a straight answer out of Hawke about the pain, but the most Anders can do is monitor the injury to make sure it doesn’t worsen.

Hawke answers after the second knock, a roughened voice clearing before calling. “Who is it?”

In lieu of giving an answer and risking being sent away, Anders steps through the tent flap. The inside of Hawke’s tent is warm, a strongly needed relief on Anders’ own aching joints. The heater is out, running on full steam to warm the space.

Hawke sits at his makeshift writing desk, in only his trousers and undershirt. He looks more annoyed than upset that Anders has taken the liberty of letting himself in. Brown eyes settle on the medical bag slung over Anders’ shoulder.

“My shoulder is fine,” Hawke says, rolling his eyes.

“I wasn’t aware you’ve been through medical school,” Anders retorts dryly, noting the twitch tugging at the corner of Hawke’s lips―a sign that he’s already on thin ice and Hawke’s stormy mood is not to be underestimated. “So you’ll have to let me be the judge of that.”

Anders drops his medical bag to the floor with a definitive thump and Hawke sighs, resigning to his surgeon’s steely resolve. He tosses the pen from his hand, sending it clattering across the desktop.

“Let’s get this over with,” the man grumbles, resigning to his fate and holding his arm out for inspection.

Anders takes the offered limb gingerly, wrapping his fingers just above Hawke’s elbow. His skin is hot to the touch, burning in the already warm room. The muscle beneath his fingers is firm, thick ribbons and tendons undulating as he moves the arm around.

He could do such a superficial exam with his eyes closed, so he lets his attention wander around Hawke’s personal tent while he feels for anomalies and listens for the man’s minute noises of discomfort. Hawke’s tent is tidy as always, though he can’t help but to notice an official-looking document on the desk. Beside it lies a bundle of sealed envelopes held together by a red silk ribbon, with beautiful looping handwriting in black ink adorning the front. Letters from Bethany, then, or perhaps his mother.

“Well?” Hawke says, snapping Anders’ attention back to him. “What do you say, _doctor?_ ”

“Another two weeks, unless you do anything more to it.”

Hawke _hmphs,_ looking back toward the documents spread across the surface of his desk. He reaches for the discarded pen, roughly shaking Anders’ hand from his shoulder in the process.

Anders takes a step back, thrown off by the man’s already foul mood. Something in him wishes he could have held on, for only a few seconds more. It’s been some time―a week, maybe two―since they’ve last fallen into bed together. It could be that, or it may be due to the fact that the war has only grown larger and more deadly in recent weeks. 

“Hawke―”

“Help!” comes a scream from outside. “Please, somebody, help!”

Both are quick on their feet, Anders pushing through the tent flaps with Hawke hot on his heels. Anders looks around, unable to sense where the cry for help had come from. It isn’t until a figure, a young boy with a slight underfed frame, emerges from the surrounding mist on an old bicycle.

Anders rushes forth, recognizing the ten year old boy as one of the children from the nearby village. Since Anders arrived, years ago, the boy had been to camp often in order to ask for aid, supplies, to run errands for Hawke in exchange for meager amounts of coin.

“Help! Messere Hawke! Anyone!” calls the boy, Antoni, before falling off his bicycle into a fit of coughs.

Kneeling before him, Anders gives him a quick once over. His exposed skin is bright red, already showing signs of blistering. The boy’s eyes are watering profusely, though it doesn’t seem like normal tears. He coughs, his small body shuddering through the hoarse and forceful sound.

“Antoni, what happened?” Hawke asks from over Anders’ shoulders, ignoring the small crowd of soldiers gathering around them.

“A-attack,” Antoni says between coughs, voice cracked and breathy. “Enemy planes, twenty minutes ago. Bombs, th-then a gas. Then soldiers.”

Anders exchanges a glance with Hawke at the mention of ‘gas.’ Chemical warfare is still new to the war, though it’s been around long enough for the enemy to start developing a type of their own. The use of a chemical agent, especially on innocent civilians, makes Anders’ blood boil. He looks back toward the child, knowing he must have only gotten half of the effects if he could make the three mile ride to camp.

“Soldiers?” Hawke asks, pushing forth to more important questions.

Antoni nods. “With masks, guns, knives. I ran when they started shooting!” He pushes past Anders, small hands grasping onto Hawke’s woolen overcoat. “You have to help us! Everyone will die!”

“Major Gustav,” Hawke barks, and the man in question comes forth. “I want every soldier able to fight ready to depart in three minutes.”

“Yes, ser.”

Overhearing the order, the crowd immediately disperses toward their own tents, retrieving their gear. Anders loses sight of Hawke quickly, deciding to go to the surgical tent to fill a pack with supplies to deal with any possible injuries. He shoves his previously unused gas mask into the bag too, in case the gas hasn’t diffused by the time they arrive.

When Anders dashes back outside, soldiers are already piling into the camp’s only truck―a Class-B model used only when moving the camp from location to location to avoid being discovered by the enemy. As Anders strides toward it, he spots Hawke stepping out from his tent, a pair of rifles slung over his shoulder.

Almost immediately, Hawke’s eyes find Anders among the crowd of readied soldiers. His gaze locks, his expression growing angrier with every step he takes toward Anders. The brigadier general seizes Anders by the back of his jacket collar, nearly hoisting him off his feet and dragging him across camp.

“Hawke, let go! _Let go―!_ ” Anders shouts, trying to tear himself out of Hawke’s vice-like grip without success. He digs his heels into the mud, pushing against the man as Anders is thrown into his own personal tent.

“What _the fuck_ were you trying to do?” Hawke growls.

“You heard Antoni! We have to go and help them! People are dying. _Innocent_ people are already dead!”

“It’s too dangerous for you.”

“Fuck you, Hawke!” Anders screams, raising his hands in frustration. He can’t believe that, of all times, Hawke is saying this to him _now_. He refuses to sit on his hands and let people die just because it’s _‘too dangerous.’_ He simply can’t. “People need my help! And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a member of this army too!”

“You are a _surgeon_ , not a soldier,” Hawke yells in return, stepping between Anders and the tent’s exit. “You’re needed _here_ , so you will stay _here!_ ”

The man’s words sting, implying Anders is some sort of other, lesser being incapable of combat. Anders’ jaw snaps closed from being finished with trying to reason with the man, his bubbling anger at Hawke’s lunacy reaching its peak.

Instead, he just hoists his medical pack higher on his shoulder before walking forward, pushing past Hawke’s intimidating figure.

Until Hawke _snaps_.

Anders nearly to the exit before an enormous hand wraps around his neck, pulling him off-balance. The tent spins in his vision for a moment before he finds himself slammed down onto the desk. His belongings shake from the impact, a book and an open inkwell tumbling from its surface and his bag of medical supplies falls to the floor with a thump.

Pinned face-down by the neck, Anders lashes back with his arms, managing a couple half-hearted punches against Hawke’s sturdy frame. Hawke catches his wrists in one hand, pinning them to his lower back.

“You _need_ me, so just let me go!”

“No.” Hawke leans over him, his deep voice filling Anders’ ear. “You’ll stay exactly where I tell you to.”

A hand finds the waistband of Anders’ trousers, roughly pulling them down and over the swell of his ass. The abrupt movement makes Anders freeze, eyes widening as a spit-slicked finger prods at his hole. He struggles, wriggling in Hawke’s grip only to be held down harder.

“Hawke, no―!” Anders gasps as a second finger pushes in entirely too early.

His heart drops when he hears the clink of Hawke’s belt coming undone, a zipper being pulled. Hawke couldn’t seriously be doing this, not now. Anders has fantasized about being held down and taken like this, but now it feels wrong. Everything is _so very wrong_.

He’s needed at the village, they both are! Why won’t Hawke understand that he’ll save more lives, both soldier and civilian, if he were to come along? Why is Hawke punishing him like this?

Hawke pushes in in one fluid motion, ignoring how Anders howls in pain. His eyes well up with tears, threatening to fall from his lashes as Hawke begins to thrust into him hard. The man’s pace is relentless and brutal, his grip on Anders’ bony wrists growing tighter until Anders feels the bruises form.

He’s powerless beneath Hawke’s body, unable to do anything more than feel Hawke’s enormous length split him open. His own cock hangs half-hard between his legs, pressed up against the edge of the desk. Anders’ eyes drift open, his tear-hazed vision focusing until he spots his journal just inches away from his face―where he wrote about loving Hawke only days before.

It’s only when he remembers the heartfelt words he had written about the very man currently fucking him that the tears begin to fall freely over his cheeks.

Only a few short minutes pass until Hawke reaches completion, no sounds coming from them other than Hawke’s heavy breaths and Anders’ stifled sobs. Hawke pulls out, pulls _away_ from him before zipping his trousers and buckling his belt. Anders’ stays motionless on the desk, his legs too weak and trembling to carry him anywhere for awhile.

Hawke pulls his overcoat over his shoulders again, his piercing gaze falling to Anders once more. “Do you understand your orders?”

The question tears the last shreds of Anders’ dignity from him, leaving him feeling nothing more than fear and obedience. He throws his now free arm over his face, in a futile effort to hide his tears from the other officer.

“Yes, ser,” Anders replies in painful surrender, listening to the man leave the tent to rejoin the bustling of soldiers ready to depart.

Hawke got what he wanted.

_He always did._

The company of soldiers return the next day, bringing back severely burned bodies and corpses of those who died along the way. Part of him feels hollow when he sees the brigadier general again, but another part of him is still relieved to see the man intact and alive. He pushes any and all emotions aside, quickly getting to work on the worst of his cases in the surgical tent. 

The gas victims got the worst of it all, skin covered in burns and blisters, some missing pieces of their skin entirely. It’s unlike anything Anders has ever seen, not quite resembling any burn victim he’s ever had on his table. Most of their eyes have gone cloudy, rendering them blind to anything more than blurry shadows while they writhe in pain in the recovery tent.

He wonders, distantly, what he could have done had he been there. If there was anything he could have done at all.

Anders avoids Hawke for some time after that, the feeling of wary heartbreak settling heavily in his chest whenever he sees the man. There’s plenty to do around camp to keep himself busy, unavailable for private moments―tending to wounds, checking up on soldiers, cleaning the surgery station, even helping the cook with meal preparation. 

However, he cannot help having the familiar rush of relief whenever the brigadier general returns from the front safely.

Now, Anders stands on the other side of the table in the command tent, keeping his eyes trained on the map dotted with a few dozen little markers. He’s not alone with Hawke, as a small collective of high-ranking Generals have come to forward camp to discuss potential strategies. Though Hawke is the second lowest ranking man in the room, aside from Anders, he has clearly taken control of the meeting.

Though Anders does not have much to contribute in terms of strategy, he is required to be present at the officers’ meeting. General Guerrin gave him a peculiar look of disdain when he arrived, quietly commenting that it was ‘absurd’ that a surgeon was attending. Hawke smoothed it over with a clipped reply in an inarguable tone, though Anders wish he hadn’t since he wanted to be anywhere else at that very moment.

“That sounds agreeable. I’ll inform the men of what I’ve come up with,” General Guerrin says while his traveling assistant records the plans onto a spare map. Hawke had proposed the scheme―catching the enemy by surprise by sneaking past their defenses using a previously unknown mountain pass―but it seems that the general is already taking credit for it.

“Yes, ser,” Hawke says with a solid salute, but Anders can see the subtle way the man’s eyebrow twitches.

“Brigadier General Hawke,” Guerrin continues, quickly rolling up the map before funneling it through a protective tube. “In a few days, you will have another visitor to host for several days.”

Hawke cocks a dark brow. “And who might that be?”

“A Chantry sister,” General Guerrin replies. “It’s been decided by the Divine herself that our soldiers must have spiritual support during such trying times. It’s part of a new initiative: Chantry sisters volunteer to travel to encampments to spread the Chant and soothe the souls of those fighting.”

The news catches both Anders and Hawke off-guard. A Chantry sister? _Here?_

“General Guerrin,” Anders says, speaking for the first time since the beginning of the meeting. “It isn’t safe for a Chantry sister to be so close to the front lines―”

“Non-combatants don’t belong here,” Hawke grumbles, not bothering to hide the disapproval in his voice.

“She would, of course, be accompanied by her own guard.”

“But―”

“Besides,” the General cuts Anders off, sliding his heavy wool coat over his shoulders. “This is the Divine’s order. You wouldn’t deprive your men of their faith and connection to the Maker, would you?”

Both Anders and Hawke stay quiet.

“Good,” General Guerrin says with a smile. “I will be leaving now. Expect the sister at noon, three days from now.”

The generals and their assistants depart promptly, leaving the two together in the command tent. There’s a minute of silence after the flutter of the tent flap closing behind the last official. Without the map spread out on the table, Anders has nothing to keep himself occupied with. He keeps his attention turned toward the ground, not even chancing a single glance toward the brigadier general.

“What a bunch of idiots.”

Anders looks up.

“Sending a non-combatant to an active war zone,” Hawke scoffs angrily. “Why not just send her straight to No Man’s Land? It would be a quicker death.”

“Do you think she’ll be a target?” Anders asks, thankful that their first conversation in several days is about something relatively neutral. At least they’re both in agreement that this isn’t a smart idea. Anders doesn’t want a Chantry sister at camp any more than Hawke does, but they have no choice but to obey the Divine’s directive.

“No, “ Hawke says, shaking his head and sighing. “It’s simply putting an innocent person in needless danger.”

Though Hawke can be rough, destructive―even _outright cruel,_ as he’s discovered―it’s moments like this that show the man has a caring heart under the stony exterior created by endless years of fighting. He knows that Hawke cares deeply for his men, for his country… for Anders. It doesn’t excuse what Hawke did, using sex to force Anders to obey a direct order, but it’s reassuring to know the man he’s long since fallen in love with is still within.

Anders nods, lingering for a few moments more before excusing himself from the tent.

Just as expected, the Chantry sister arrives at noon. Hawke stands in the center of the encampment, waiting impatiently to receive the traveling party. Anders emerges from the recovery tent, venturing close enough to watch and listen to the encounter but not be involved. He pulls a cigarette from his jacket pocket, pinched from Hawke’s drawer some time ago, and gives his lighter a few flicks until the tip ignites.

The sister and her entourage arrive promptly, riding horses from the east. The woman, dressed in blue and red Chantry robes with gold embroidery, is surrounded by four men wearing navy blue non-military uniforms, each with a rifle strung over their shoulders. Templars, if Anders had any guess, the Chantry’s rendition of a private militia.

“You there,” the blond woman says, nodding toward Hawke from atop her dappled horse. “Are you Hawke?”

“ _Brigadier General_ Hawke,” he responds pointedly. It’s clear that he’s already short-tempered, and the disrespectful informal address cut it even shorter. “Yes.”

“Good,” she replies, moving to dismount her horse. She’s clearly unused to riding, as she has to untangle her Chantry skirts from the saddle before landing solidly on her feet. The woman grimaces at the mud now caking her shoes, but instead brushes invisible dirt from her skirt. “I couldn’t tell if this was a military encampment or a gathering of the homeless.”

The insensitive, ignorant statement is unexpected coming from a Chantry sister, a woman who is supposed to be a paragon of kindness, humility, and compassion. Even though Anders has yet to speak a word to her, he can tell this woman is none of those things.

“My name is Sister Petrice, beloved member of the Kirkwall Chantry and devoted servant to the Maker,” she announces with a flourish, surrounded by an air of superiority. She speaks loud enough to be heard by nearby soldiers, catching their attention. “As Divine Justinia the Fifth decreed, I have come to provide spiritual relief to the brave souls fighting for our country.”

Anders rolls his eyes at the woman’s performative speech, taking a drag of his cigarette and leaning on the pole holding his tent upright. Perhaps it’s simply his mood, but this woman already grates on his nerves. The next three days are going to be quite a battle in its own right.

“I assume you can have your men gathered for a sermon before suppertime,” Petrice says, turning to Hawke. “All should be in attendance.”

“Those who wish to attend may go.” He gives her a one-shouldered shrug, clearly losing patience for the woman. “This camp is made up of more than just Andrastians.”

“Nonsense, there is no mercy in the afterlife without devotion to the Maker,” Petrice replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now, where is the stage?”

Hawke’s eyebrow raises. “The stage?”

“A raised platform from which words can be spoken?” Petrice answers, as if she believes Hawke to be dim-witted. Anders can tell that the implication starts to make Hawke’s blood boil, but the woman continues as if she hasn’t noticed. “I assume you’ve prepared one for me. A proper sermon requires the proper setting.”

“Sister Petrice,” Hawke says after a steadying breath. His voice is hard, impatience stretching to the limit. “There is no _stage_ , so you’ll have to make do with what you are given.”

The woman hums, not bothering to hide her displeasure at the news. Her eyes narrow and she purses her rouged lips. “Fine, I shall have one of my men find a box. But don’t think that the Divine will not hear about your unwillingness to cooperate with her directive. You seem resistant to grant your assistance and protection to an important member of the Divine’s flock.”

“Listen, lady,” Hawke says, with a clipped tone that says something in him is close to snapping. “I’m not in the business of protecting people like you.”

“My my,” Petrice says, her lips curling into a sneer as she enjoys Hawke’s slight unraveling. “And here I thought that was _exactly_ the business you’re in.”

“I fight for my country, for people who aren’t foolish enough to come waltzing into a war zone, for people who don’t make asinine demands of superiors. For people _unlike you._ ”

Sister Petrice hums, sharp eyes glaring narrowing at him. There’s an enormous tension building between them, an unstoppable force and an immovable object―though Anders can’t tell which is which. The two stand strong, staring at the other as if that were the way battles were won. In this instance, Anders thinks, that is indeed the truth.

“I’ll be sure to make note of that on my official report to the Divine. In the meantime, if you would be so kind to lead me to my tent. I must rest and prepare before the sermon.”

Again, Hawke stares at her without even blinking. “You’re traveling but don’t have your own supplies?”

Sister Petrice laughs, a haughty shrill sound that immediately grates on Anders’ nerves. “Of course not. The Divine has ordered that each camp will graciously provide everything we need―food, shelter, _anything_ at all. Isn’t that correct, Ser Varnell?”

One of her bodyguards, now standing just one step behind her, nods. “Correct.”

Hawke frowns, to which Petrice tilts her head. “Do you not have a place where a poor, weary gentlewoman to lay her head? Certainly you are not _that_ ill-prepared, nor heartless.”

“Of course,” Hawke grinds out after a pause, turning on his heel and leading the sister and her party away. Though there isn’t a hint of defeat in his voice, it’s clear that he’s seething inside and Petrice looks more than satisfied. “Right this way, Sister.”

Later that evening, when the surgery tent is spotless and everything is organized for the next day, Anders makes one last visit to the infirmary before heading to bed. It’s nearly midnight when he enters the tent―a space about half as large as the mess hall and filled with cots from corner to corner. Nearly every bed is occupied by a soldier who requires more intensive care, or someone who warrants quarantine from the rest of the healthy camp populace.

Most are asleep, curled beneath their threadbare blankets with only their uneven cropped hair poking out on their thin pillows. A few coughs sound out as Anders weaves through the rows of cots, quickly checking for signs of worsening ailments. There’s no doubt that nearly all of them are in pain, either recovering from an amputation or shrapnel extraction, but Anders doesn’t have enough pain reliever to go around. Central Command seems to underestimate their needs, and it would be weeks before a convoy comes to transport incapacitated soldiers to a real hospital in civilian territory.

When Anders finishes checking a few wounds and changes the bandages of a dozen or so dozing soldiers, he retreats to the corner to wash his hands in one of the basins. The water is muddled from dried blood and dirt but Anders uses it anyways, making a note in the back of his mind to swap the water out. There’s constantly a tub of water boiling in the mess hall, but that feels like a problem for the morning.

As he leaves, Anders spots a familiar figure filling one of the cots near the infirmary’s entrance. The well-muscled body makes mountains beneath the olive-drab wool blanket, with a shock of dark hair that Anders instantly recognizes.

It’s Hawke, curled up on his side with his back to the rest of the tent. Anders can see the the man’s neck and shoulders, scarred from his numerous rotations on the battlefield, and the glint of light that reflects off the aluminum identification tags around his neck. The man is out of place, not sick nor injured nor an average soldier. The sight of the brigadier general slumbering among privates and corporals is an odd one, but it occurs to him that Hawke didn’t fall asleep there by accident.

He must have given his own private tent to Sister Petrice―Maker damn that woman, deserving of nothing but yet Hawke has provided nonetheless. For a moment, Anders feels urged to invite Hawke to bed, but the thought is fleeting. Things may have eased very little between them, but waking Hawke from a deep sleep is akin to waking a hibernating bear.

There is always tomorrow.

He spends the next day avoiding both Hawke and Sister Petrice, only occasionally darting between the medical tents and his private one. Hawke seems to keep himself scarce throughout the day, but Anders is surprised to see Petrice visiting the wounded in the tent. She prays over them, invoking the Maker and Andraste to heal, to protect… to save. The woman is doing what she came to do, but still it surprises him.

When the sermon begins, the encampment empties considerably as soldiers make their way to the clearing to listen. Though he’s Andrastian, Anders doesn’t attend at first. He has better things to do―tend to the wounded, write another entry in his journal, clean his tools and take inventory of the supplies.

Eventually, Anders finds himself wandering toward the gathering of soldiers. There’s a considerable crowd, not that he expected any different, Sister Petrice is just visible over the heads of his fellow men, standing on an empty box that once held precious packets of ground coffee beans. Her voice rings clearly under the dreary grey sky, reciting less interesting verses of the Chant in her shrill tone.

One thing does catch his attention. On the other side of the small field of soldiers, Hawke stands with his back against a tree, thick arms across his chest with a cigarette between his fingers. He isn’t watching Petrice, but instead has his gaze trained toward the dirt. His expression is unreadable from this distance, partially obscured by the short brim of his peaked uniform cap.

Anders quietly follows the edge of the crowd, trying his best to not draw attention though most eyes and ears are trained on the Chantry sister. His leather boots squish in the mud, covering every inch of open area from the earlier rainfall. It starts to soak through to his thick wool socks, but Anders grimaces and trudges on.

With his clammy hands clasped behind his back, Anders stands quietly beside his superior officer and listens to the remainder of the sermon. If Hawke notices his sudden presence, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead he stares blankly at the trodden dirt a few strides ahead, seemingly deep in thought. Anders would never claim to know what goes on inside the brigadier general’s head, but he knows that the man’s mind never gives him a moment’s rest.

The curse of being a brigadier general and brilliant military strategist, he supposes.

Anders could recall the story of the Maker and Andraste by heart, and though it’s recited by a woman he’s come to loathe, it echoes in his chest. He’s long since abandoned the hope that the Maker was involved in any of this―the long war, the endless fighting, the immeasurable death.

It’s not that he’s abandoned his faith, but Anders has seen too many horrors to be certain the Maker hasn’t abandoned them.

Sister Petrice concludes the long, drawling sermon with a prayer. The crowd of soldiers bow their heads and fold their hands, and to his surprise, so does Hawke. Anders joins him, staring at the same patch of mud while murmuring along with the prayer invoking Andraste’s blessing.

When it’s over, the congregation begins to disperse, heading back to the main area of the encampment, to the warmth of their tents and nearby campfires. Hawke’s posture straightens and his head levels, deep brown eyes sliding towards Anders. There’s something different about him, like he’s more distant than the few feet that separates them.

Hawke shrugs indifferently, as if he wasn’t just found listening to the dreaded sister’s sermon, and flicks the butt of his finished cigarette into the mud.

“Could use all the help we could get,” he says under his breath. Their shoulders brush lightly as Hawke passes him, heading back toward camp with the rest of the soldiers.

Hawke made it sound like his attendance, his head bowed in prayer, was just a skeptic’s attempt at divine insurance. But Anders knows Hawke holds an unshakable belief in the Maker.

He always has.

Anders spends the next morning washing out bandages, seeing how much of his dwindling supply he can salvage and reuse. He hears the soft swish of the tent flap only seconds before the voice.

“Anders, is it?” Petrice asks from behind him.

Hanging the pink-tinged bandages on the edge of the washbasin, Anders sighs silently before turning on his heel to face the woman. She’s back in her traveling clothes, a slightly different and less ornate Chantry robe and leather belt with a pouch. There is freshly applied makeup on her face, dusting the sharp crests of her cheeks and the dangerous curve of her lips. Her blue eyes glare at him from across the tent, but Anders has faced fiercer stares and remains unaffected by her attempted intimidation.

“Lieutenant Colonel Anders,” he says, correcting her. It didn’t take him long to catch on to the fact that the woman purposely doesn’t use proper ranks and titles in order to assert herself.

The corner of Petrice’s lips quirks up, noticeable for a moment before she begins to wander through the surgical tent. Anders’ eyes follow her every movement as she stops to occasionally inspect his various stations and tools.

“Is there something I can do for you, Sister Petrice?” Anders says dryly, letting his impatience get the best of him. Clearly the woman is here for something, and he’d rather get it over with and send her on her way. The sooner the better.

“Oh, nothing,” Petrice replies in a sing-song voice, seeming pleased. “I leave within the hour and just thought I’d spend some time with the camp’s second-in-command.”

Anders arches a disbelieving brow, quickly hiding it under a veneer of charm. The woman has caused the upper ranks enough trouble over the past two days, but Anders isn’t about to throw all of their carefully crafted patience away. He keeps his mouth shut, watching as the woman continues her impromptu inspection.

“You know,” Petrice says, after a time while looking over his stack of requisition files at the corner of his desk. She flips through a few pages, letting out a small humming noise. “In my opinion, you’re much more personable than Hawke.”

 _‘No one asked for your opinion,’_ Anders thinks, though he knows it to be true. The soldiers in the encampment prefer to bring their woes and complaints to Anders instead of Hawke. Still, hearing a stranger say it so plainly is irksome.

“He’s a brute, that man,” Petrice continues, leaning her hip against his desk. The surface bends slightly under her weight, being poorly built and unstable, but she pays it no heed. “An absolutely unmannered barbarian. I’m not sure how you put up with him.”

Anders eyes narrow at her blunt insult, feeling it almost personally on behalf of his superior officer. “ _Brigadier General_ Hawke is a good commander and a fine man.”

“I hear you know him as _more than just a man._ ”

The statement hits him like a bomb, making his heart stagger against his ribs. He freezes, hand clenching around the edge of the table behind him. Her eyes sharpen on him, turning deadly as her blood red lips turn up in a sly smile.

She _knows_. She knows about Hawke and Anders, but how? They haven’t spent much more than ten or twenty minutes together since the woman arrived. It must have been one of the soldiers, Maker damn them. Though the soldiers know to keep their silence about their superiors’ fraternization, someone must have let it out.

He stays motionless, unwilling to give away anything. Even the slightest movement could confirm this woman’s accusation, and fraternization is a crime accompanied by a severe punishment and ejection from the army.

“Just as any other soldier in this camp,” Anders begins carefully, trying hard to sound as unaffected as he can muster, “I regard Brigadier General Hawke with the utmost respect.”

Sister Petrice hums, eyes roaming over him curiously as if there was something on his body that is telling her otherwise.

“So it seems,” she finally says, smiling knowingly at him before exiting from whence she came, leaving Anders in stunned silence.

With a cigarette dangling from his slender fingers, Anders watches the sister and her company prepare their horses for the journey to the next camp. The western outpost is a three-day ride without stopping, and Anders wouldn’t deny the passing hope that the woman meets her demise on the way.

By accident, of course. An ill-fated meeting with a bear, or something of the sort.

He’s not picky.

Many of the soldiers at rest gather around the sister as she leaves, sharing their thanks for visiting. The smile on Petrice’s lips is genuine, but far too smug for that of a Chantry sister. Kicking her horse with the heels of her boots, she waves to the adoring soldiers as she follows Ser Varnell’s dapple grey mare toward the western road. 

As she passes the medical tents, her crystal blue eyes connect with Anders’ own. Her facade of the caring and selfless Chantry sister drops for the span of a breath, flashing him a conceited look. It’s a threat, telling him ‘remember what I said’ from a distance.

It unsettles him.

“She knows,” Anders says in Hawke’s private tent later that night, unable to hold it in any longer. A surge of relief rushes over him, just for sharing the secret he’s been keeping. It’s short-lived, however, as one sideways glance to Hawke has him tense again. The man arcs a stern eyebrow at him, silently ordering him to clarify.

“About us,” he adds, choking out the syllables.

Hawke stills, processing the surgeon’s words with an unreadable expression. Beneath his bearded cheek, his jaw sets hard. Folding his arms behind his back and squaring his broad shoulders, Hawke turns away and glares toward the direction of the camp’s entrance.

“She’ll be dead before she tries to use that against us,” Hawke says simply. “I’ll make sure of it.”

It isn’t the answer Anders was expecting, but the lethal certainty in Hawke’s tone sets him at ease. Though he most likely wouldn’t approve of Hawke’s virulent and lawless methods, Anders feels confident that he no longer has anything to worry about. Many people across the country, occupying high and low positions, owe Hawke favors, even life debts. If he wanted something done―extra supplies, new connections, retribution―it would be done without question.

That’s just the kind of man he is.


	5. Chapter 5

A single gunshot rings out one early morning, sharp and clear through the fog that’s settled over the camp overnight. The sound immediately puts every man on alert, eyes and ears tuned to listen for a possible enemy ambush.

Anders had just finished his breakfast―a meagre serving of overcooked oatmeal and a ration of hardened toast. He steps outside the mess tent where many other soldiers stand looking for the source of the shot, an uneasy silence falling over them.

“Over here!” shouts a voice moments later. A pair of soldiers emerge from the surrounding woods, one supporting the weight of the other. The shorter of the two is nearly bent double, leaning heavily on his fellow soldier. The man’s pant leg is in tatters, drenched in blood from an oozing wound.

Anders immediately darts forward, weaving between onlookers until he reaches them. His mind, previously fogged by the weak coffee and a sleepless night, begins taking mental notes as he gestures for assistance to the two nearest soldiers. They nod, rushing off to retrieve a stretcher.

“Tell me, Paxley,” Anders prompts, peeling the fabric away from the wound. The injured soldier hisses in pain, but Anders ignores it. With the last of the morphine running out a few days prior, there’s nothing he can do for the pain.

“He’s hurt!”

“I can _see _that,” Anders says, patience thinning fast. “Tell me what _happened._ ”__

__“I don’t know! We were on patrol, making our rounds ‘bout the camp. He said he needed to stop for a smoke, so I went up ahead. It wasn’t more than a minute later that I heard the gunshot and came rushing back.”_ _

__“You mean he _shot himself?_ ” Anders replies in a hushed tone, careful to be clear about such a serious accusation._ _

__“Well, I,” Paxley begins, stumbling over his words. “It was an _accident._ Right, Keran?”_ _

__The soldier―Keran nods, wincing in pain._ _

__Anders’ eyes narrow, frowning momentarily before letting out a deep sigh. The two soldiers return with the stretcher, pulling the injured man onto it and carrying him to the surgical tent. Anders follows them silently, watching the small crowd of curious onlookers begin to disperse._ _

__The operation is simple, only requiring local anesthetic and one assistant. Anders dislodges the bullet’s shrapnel from Keran’s rectus femoris, leaving the muscle tissue damaged but mostly usable. Bullet shells from close range cause more harm than those shot from far away, though there’s something about this wound that bothers Anders._ _

__In his experience and training as a military surgeon, it’s not rare for soldiers to injure themselves in order to get an honorable discharge. But anyone found guilty of such deceitful actions were to be court-martialed and imprisoned. With a trained eye, Anders can usually tell if a wound is self-inflicted―there are signs, like the size and condition of the shell’s entry point, and gunpowder residue in and around the wound._ _

__But there’s no residue at all._ _

__Anders doesn’t say a word to Keran until after the surgery, when the young man has been moved to the recovery tent. He sits on the edge of the cot, placing his medical journal in his lap as he continues to write the rest of his notes from the procedure. He can feel Keran staring at the side of his face, nervous anticipation emanating from him almost visibly._ _

__The kid couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen, though the lines in his face and beneath his eyes age him exponentially. Anders vaguely remembers him, having arrived to the camp as a fresh recruit a few months prior. Since then, Keran’s squad has been to and from the front lines numerous times and he’s always returned unscathed._ _

__“So,” Anders says, breaking the silence. He shuts his journal and slides the pen into the loosely stitched spine. He speaks quietly, keeping the sensitive topic away from nearby ears. “An accident?”_ _

__“Y-yes,” Keran begins, blue eyes flickering toward the doctor. “I―”_ _

__Anders interrupts him. “Please do not lie to me. If you continue like this, you might land yourself in bigger trouble than you’re prepared for.”_ _

__Keran’s mouth snaps closed, nodding._ _

__“I know what really happened. Before I decide whether to report this or not, you’ll tell me _why._ ”_ _

__The young man takes a steadying breath, taking more than a few seconds to consider his words. Anders waits patiently, though he’s surprised by how quickly Keran’s face crumples into anguish, large tears rolling freely down his cheeks._ _

__“I just couldn’t take it anymore!” Keran says, a little too loudly at first. He winces at his own outburst, glancing around the recovery tent before lowering his volume. “ _I’d rather die_ than go back to the front lines.”_ _

__Anders tilts his head, keeping his voice level and gentle. “You’d prefer death by your own hand―dishonorably, I might add―than for the protection of your own country?”_ _

__“Yes,” Keran says, and his plain tone perplexes Anders. The young soldier leans in, as if he were telling a well-kept secret. “Let me ask you a question: have you ever been to the front, doctor?”_ _

__The topic is still a sore one, but Anders shakes his head._ _

__“You have no fucking idea, then,” Keran continues, not bothering to wipe the tear tracks running down his face. “It’s a place worse than hell. There’s a never-ending rain of bullets over your head, and you’re trying not to die while your brothers lie around you―hungry, sick, and dying. You can’t help them, you can’t even avenge them. We’re sent up there for one thing: _to die._ ”_ _

__The kid’s words punch all the air from Anders’ lungs. It was only two short words, but they contain all the hopelessness and desperation this war has wrought upon them. He purses his lips, looking over Keran carefully and considers the situation at hand._ _

__What Keran has done is cowardly in the eyes of the army, and all laws dictate that Anders must report him to Central for his actions. But looking back at Keran, Anders couldn’t subject Keran to the stockade, to a dishonorable discharge that would haunt him for the rest of his life._ _

__“Please,” Keran says softly after a pause. “Don’t report me. I just wanted...”_ _

__“I won’t be reporting this,” Anders replies, finally making his decision. “But you have to understand I cannot send you home either.”_ _

__“I understand,” Keran whispers, though he’s unable to hide how his shoulders slump in disappointment._ _

__“Sir,” says a voice from over Anders’ shoulder. It’s Paxley, who has recently ducked through the tent flaps close to Keran’s cot. He stands at attention, saluting his superior officer before turning to address Keran. “How are you feeling?”_ _

__“I’m okay,” Keran says with a shrug._ _

__Anders takes this opportunity to stand, moving aside for Paxley to keep his friend company. “He’ll make a full recovery.”_ _

__Paxley’s brow furrows for only a moment, then relaxing into a placid expression. “Oh. That’s good.”_ _

__“I’ll leave you two be,” Anders says, turning to leave. As he passes Paxley, he stops and places a firm hand on the soldier’s shoulder, leaning in close to the soldier’s ear. “Oh, and Paxley...”_ _

__Paxley looks at him, eyes wide with apprehension._ _

__Anders drops his tone, a dangerous mix of friendly warning and downright threat. “The next time a friend asks you to shoot them in the leg, _don’t do it._ ”_ _

__The soldier’s shocked face is a blur to Anders as he promptly leaves the recovery tent, leaving the pair to talk. It’s nearly suppertime, but instead of heading to the mess hall for dinner, Anders decides to retire to his tent. His stomach growls, but he needs a smoke more than food._ _

__The whole ordeal has left a sour taste in his mouth, reawakening the ache in his chest. Keran isn’t the first soldier with a death wish he’s encountered, risking a life of imprisonment for a chance to go home and see his family, but he is the first in awhile._ _

__Keran’s words echo in his head. _‘Have you ever been to the front lines, doctor?’__ _

__It sparked sense of bitterness that he shouldn’t have. Anders is by no means envious of other soldiers―no one in their right mind would be―but reminds him of just a few months earlier, where he attempted to go to the battlefield to help only to be stopped by Hawke. Everything, all of Keran’s words and his own emotions, mix together to form a volatile storm brewing in his gut._ _

__He sighs, not bothering to light the lantern in his tent but instead to let his instincts guide him toward his cot. He unlaces his boots and pulls them from his feet, putting them aside before shedding his shirt._ _

__Tucked beneath his blanket, Anders stares through the darkness of the tent, his eyes making up shadowy figures and shapes. Thoughts swirl around his mind, some so heavy and unyielding that it uncenters his very sense of self._ _

__If he can’t help men like Keran, who see the horrors of the front lines, who are so terrified at the thought of returning, then what good is he doing here? He’s sworn an oath to protect life, but this? This just feels like conceding to the fact that he is helpless in keeping these men alive. He’s pulling bullets from their bodies and stitching them up, sending those unlucky enough to keep their limbs back to the front, again and again and again until they die._ _

__He can’t consider himself a doctor anymore, only someone who condemns soldiers to more horrors of war._ _

__The realization shakes him to the core, bringing tears to his eyes._ _

__Hopefully some rest will sort him out, help him put this out of his mind._ _

__Barely two hours later, Anders wakes from an uneasy sleep with a gasp. The tent is quiet, dark except for where a soft light filters in from behind him and the faint smell of cigarette smoke. Anders rolls over to see Hawke standing at the entrance of his tent, a lantern dangling from one fist. The candlelight flickers over the strong features of his face, casting an odd sort of shadow over his dark eyes._ _

__“Keran,” Hawke says, and it’s very clear what the man is asking._ _

__“It was an accident,” Anders says, pushing himself up to his elbows and squinting at the brigadier general from across the tent. A lie is a lie, he supposes, and it’s best to keep it that way for all involved._ _

__But Hawke doesn’t seem to believe him, arching an eyebrow. “You’re certain?”_ _

__“Yes,” Anders replies shortly, not waiting for an answer before turning over and pulling the blanket over his head. He listens for the sounds of Hawke leaving the tent, but hears none._ _

__“Alright.”_ _

__Anders huffs, assuming the conversation is over and he can go back to sleep. The situation from earlier still weighs heavily in his chest, like a bruise that just won’t go away._ _

__The cot shifts and groans under the weight of a second man. Anders shoves the blanket down, glaring over his shoulder at the man currently removing his boots._ _

__“I’m not in the mood,” Anders grumbles._ _

__Hawke says nothing, tugging his belt free from its loops. He pulls his uniform shirt over his head, quickly folding it in a neat square before setting it aside._ _

__When Anders hears a soft puff of air and the tent goes dark, he grunts. “I said―”_ _

__But he stops when Hawke slips under the blanket, stretching out along Anders’ back. A heavy arm settles over Anders’ waist, warm broad hand settling over his navel. Hawke doesn’t pull him tight, doesn’t let his hand wander to improper places like it normally would. Hawke is just… there. Holding him._ _

__Like he needs him._ _

__Like he _loves_ him._ _

__Anders feels the last of his defenses fall, tension draining out of him at last. The touch is so gentle but full of certainty and protection, reminiscent of the man who Anders has come to know and love. The corners of his eyes become wet from the surge of emotion, the walls he’s built around himself crumbling next to the unbreakable fortress that is Hawke._ _

__“Why are you doing this?” He doesn’t mean for the words to slip out, but it’s too late to take them back. He can’t tell if Hawke reacted to such a question—the only thing Anders feels is his heart thudding heavy in his chest._ _

__“Something’s wrong,” comes Hawke’s reply, short but a little more vague than Anders is used to._ _

__Anders turns his head, but he can’t see Hawke’s expression through the darkness. “With you?”_ _

__“With _you._ ”_ _

___Oh._ _ _

__Anders is stunned into silence. Hawke is here _for him_ , offering comfort in his own way. His purpose as a doctor, his whole worldview and carefully crafted identity, has been turned upside-down today—and it only took a few moments of looking for Hawke to sense the turmoil inside him._ _

__It’s times like this that reminds Anders that what’s between them isn’t only about physical release, even if it began that way. Something deeper has formed over the years together, full of care and feelings too mixed up to understand. When a chord is struck in Anders’ chest, it’s like Hawke can feel its echoes._ _

__Though Anders still feels anguish from what Hawke has done, there will always be a part of him that longs for Hawke―for his touch, his smell, his unavoidable and unsurmountable presence. The way his body curls around him, the heated breath across his skin, the might contained in his muscles and the gentleness buried somewhere in his heart._ _

__It feels tarnished in a way, a deep fissure down the center of their trust. A confusing mix of feelings still seep through the cracks like flowers blooming, especially at times like this. Anders can’t quite navigate the emotions that threaten to overwhelm him―the feeling of understandable pain and hurt, but also the hopeful yearning and intense fervor that overcomes it all._ _

___‘Love’_ comes to mind, but Anders quickly shuts the thought away. He doesn’t want to set himself up for disappointment—though he has hopes._ _

___Oh Maker, does he ever._ _ _

__Too tired to fight his eyes for any longer, Anders relaxes in the man’s arms. Hawke slowly curls his arm around Anders, rolling him until they’re chest to chest. The position is unspeakably intimate, with Anders’ ear settled over Hawke’s heart. It beats in a steady thrum, a sound so comforting that Anders can do nothing more than give into the sleep that he so desperately needs._ _

__The last words on his mind are _‘love, please be love.’__ _

__After that night, things seem to return to normal―both in the camp and between the two of them. Hawke leaves for the front lines a few days later, leading a rested and though not particularly refreshed company of soldiers to relieve those in the trenches. Anders feels as though he is holding his breath while the brigadier general is away, but breathes easy when the man returns in one piece._ _

__They begin spending more nights together, though not on entirely purpose. Anders simply elects to stay in bed after sex and Hawke ask him to leave—but more surprisingly, Hawke stays the night in Anders’ tent equally as often. Though their cots are wider than standard issue, it’s still difficult to fit two grown men without touching a great deal. Anders wouldn’t call it cuddling, per se, but there is a newfound sense of peaceful intimacy in the act that he wouldn’t trade for anything._ _

__But, as in love and war, the peace doesn’t last._ _

__Word of a high-level official and nationally beloved war hero was revealed to be an enemy spy. The news came from the communications tent, just hours after the betrayal was made public. The corporal pulled Anders and Hawke into the tent as it began, requesting for clarification over the transmitter. The poor boy looked nervously at his superiors as he translated the morse code._ _

___‘General Gregory Dedrick confirmed traitor. All orders on his behalf cancelled. Trial in one week. Any useful information regarding his crimes must be reported to Central Command.’_ _ _

__Anders’ blood runs cold, knowing this will come as a devastating blow to the war effort. He spares a glance at Hawke, whose face is quickly darkening with fury. Anders doesn’t know too much about about Hawke’s time in the military before arriving to forward camp, but he knows Hawke always looked up to the general and his achievements._ _

__The news spreads fast, hitting the encampment’s inhabitants understandably hard. Many soldiers idolized the man, tarnishing their images of him with the word _‘traitor.’_ It took only days for the local newspapers to reach camp, detailing Dedrick’s treasonous actions against the nation. From what Anders has gathered, the man had greatly harmed the war effort by sharing sensitive intelligence with the enemy, delaying the end of the war by months or possibly years—all the while getting hundreds if not thousands of soldiers killed._ _

__The days pass at a painful pace, the tense atmosphere building as more men grow suspicious of each other. Whispers carried well into the night, only the closest sharing their thoughts of who else could possibly be working for the enemy. Though it’s improbable that anyone serving on the front is secretly committing treason, Anders understood their concern. It’s difficult fighting for your brothers-in-arms when you’re not sure if they’re going to turn on you in the trenches._ _

__Until one day, where a week of jittery mistrust and restless agitation finally comes to a head._ _

__Anders is quietly eating his midday meal in the corner of the mess tent, absentmindedly sipping at his coffee between bites of bland potatoes and overcooked beef. It’s the one time of the day he takes his meal outside his personal tent, with the other soldiers. Though often they would join him at his table, most have formed small factions—finding others they trust and sticking together._ _

__Though he can’t make out any of the tables’ murmuring, Anders wonders if anyone suspects himself—or, dare he consider it, _Hawke_ —of treason. He almost laughs at the latter thought, unable to picture Hawke betraying his nation, even in the slightest._ _

___Clang!_ _ _

__“Watch it!”_ _

__The low babbling of the mess tent comes to a startled halt. Anders glances over his shoulder, noticing two men in the narrow aisle between the benches. One of their trays lies flipped on the dirt floor, its contents spilled out all over._ _

__“You gonna apologize?” demands the soldier who lost his lunch._ _

__“Oh fuck off, Johvann.”_ _

__Lurching forward, Johvann grabs the other man by the collar of his fatigues. He pulls him close, expression filling with the type of cold fury that few possess. His voice drops in tone, but only grows louder._ _

__“What the fuck did you say to me, Aaron?” Johvann says, his grip tightening around the beige fabric bunched in his fist. The room is entirely silent but Anders is frozen in his seat, watching the events unfold. “You got something against me, huh? Against _us?_ ”_ _

___‘Us?’_ Anders repeats in his mind. What does he mean by that?_ _

__“I always knew you were a rat!” Johvann shouts, visibly growing more unstable. “You’ve got a picture of General Dedrick in your footlocker! I bet you’re feeding the enemy intel with all those letters you write every week!”_ _

__“Those are to my wife and you know it, bastard!” Aaron replies, shouting back in the man’s face with no regard to the scene they’re making. “It’s ludicrous how you’re so obsessed with rooting out traitors! How do we know you’re not one, huh?”_ _

__The man throws a well-aimed punch, straight toward Aaron’s face. His head snaps back in recoil, hands flying to his bleeding nose. Anders knows by the cracking noise that his nose is broken, and quickly overcomes his stupor before springing from his seat._ _

__The room erupts into chaos._ _

__Soldiers everywhere jump to their feet, clapping and cheering on who they believe to be in the right. A few more minor squabbles break out on the side, making Anders’ path to Johvann and Aaron next to impossible. Anders shouts, orders them to stop, but he can barely hear his own voice over the roar of the crowd._ _

__“ _ENOUGH!_ ”_ _

__Broad hands seize both brawling men by the necks, physically tearing them apart. Aaron manages another swing at Johvann before realizing just whose hand remains wrapped around his neck._ _

__Hawke stands in the middle of the mess tent, his face reddening from his nearly murderous expression. The room comes to a standstill at the sudden appearance of the brigadier general, the surrounding soldiers stand in stunned silence, already panicking over possible consequences for such unruly behavior._ _

__Hawke raises his arms, pulling both men up by the neck until they’re balancing on their toes. “What’s the issue?” he asks, making it clear to all that he has no patience for bullshit._ _

__“That man’s a filthy rat!” Johvann spat, still seething from before._ _

__Hawke cocks an eyebrow, glancing to the other man in his grip. “Is this true?”_ _

__“He’s just a crazed fool, making up these— these— _delusions_ about me!”_ _

__Hawke’s eyes narrow, turning his icy stare to Johvann. “Do you have any evidence?”_ _

__Johvann’s face fell. “Well, no, but look in his footlocker! He has a picture of that bleedin’ traitor in there! He idolizes him!”_ _

__“We all do!” Aaron replies, a knot forming on his brow before he quietly corrects himself. “We all _did._ ”_ _

__Hawke sighs deeply, lowering the men back to the ground. The two men stay in place, more placated than they were only moments ago. Crossing his arms over his chest, Hawke runs a hand over his face—a tic Anders has never seen the man do publicly._ _

__The brigadier general turns to address the mess tent, chest heaving in a deep breath before speaking loud enough for all to hear._ _

__“I will not tolerate in-fighting in my camp. We are not enemies, we are _brothers,_ ” Hawke says gravely. “Look around you—you’re fighting for the man beside you, for his loved ones. His family is your family, so act like it.”_ _

__The speech, though short, is brimming with more passion and meaning than Anders has seen in the man in many weeks. Hawke is the silent type more often than not, keeping expressing his thoughts sparingly and his emotions even less. Anders watches him carefully from across the room, noting just how out of character this is for Hawke._ _

__Hawke turns toward the entrance to the tent, taking a few strides before stopping. He turns just enough to look over his shoulder. “If this happens again, I’ll have all of you in irons and tried for disorderly conduct.”_ _

__A small smile forms on Anders’ lips._ _

__Well… _that_ was very in character._ _


	6. Chapter 6

When Anders finally steps out of the recovery tent at half-past nine, it’s into a drizzling rain that hasn’t let up since noon. The mud squelches beneath his boots, threatening to seep through the seams of the stitched leather and soak his stockings. There isn’t a single spot in camp that isn’t covered in muddy puddles and standing water.

Anders frowns, wondering just how much of his personal effects have been ruined by the unrelenting rain and muck.

He decides he wishes not to know the answer to that question just yet—electing to instead make his way toward the brigadier general’s private tent across camp, with only one thing on his mind: physical release.

An incessant tension has been building between his shoulders from the frustrating day he’s had. Nothing momentous happened, just little things here and there that slowly frayed his nerves and whittled away his patience. A soldier complained too much about his pain from an injury Anders would describe as a scratch, running out of supplies during his rounds and having to return to the surgery tent three separate occasions to get what he needs—that sort of thing.

A good fuck would certainly relax him, especially if he gets to use Hawke’s washbasin and water heater afterward. 

The lantern inside the tent is lit, trickling it’s glow from between the gaps in the canvas. Anders knocks on the tent pole, not much more than an empty courtesy these days, before stepping into the tent to escape the rain. Hawke sits on his cot in a state of half-dress, as if he was interrupted after shedding his jacket and shirt. The man’s head whips up, his red eyes flashing toward Anders.

“ _Out!_ ” he snaps.

Stunned, Anders’ instincts take over out of sheer military obedience, his legs backing him out of the tent and into the rain. As the rain pelts him from above, he stands there in bewilderment as he considers the split-second scene he had witnessed. He knits his brow, the image of Hawke’s red wet eyes burned into the back of his eyelids.

_Was Hawke…?_

Cautiously, Anders pushes the canvas aside and enters the brigadier general’s tent again without knocking. Hawke doesn’t look up at him this time, only remains hunched over and hangs his head low.

“Out,” Hawke repeats, sounding more drained than irate.

He hears the sniffle, eyes carefully tracing the movement as Hawke reaches up to push the heel of his palm painfully against his eye. His heart stutters in his chest, realizing that Hawke is crying and trying to push him away. Anders looks over the man quickly, gaze catching on the letter clenched in the man’s fist—official military stationary. He frowns in concern, wondering what sort of official business could have brought Hawke to tears.

Anders crossing the tent in a few slow and soundless steps, as if any sudden movement would spook Hawke like a wild animal. He manages to unfurl the man’s fingers, working them open and gingerly extracting the letter. Much to Anders’ surprise, Hawke doesn’t protest, doesn’t say a single word to him, only stares at the ground between his boots.

Flattening the slightly crumpled letter between his hands, Anders moves a little closer to the tent’s only lantern on Hawke’s desk. He casts one last glance toward Hawke—still unmoving on the edge of the cot—before reading.

_‘Dear Brigadier General Hawke,_

_On behalf of the Officers and men of the 36th Infantry Division, I wish to offer you my sincere sympathy—”_

Anders’ heart nearly stops, mouth going dry as he blinks down at the words. _‘Oh no, no, please no.’_ He swallows, braving through the rest of the letter with dread building in his gut.

_‘—I wish to offer you my sincere sympathy in the bereavement you have sustained in the death of your brother, Lieutenant Carver Hawke. I feel that you would like to know that your brother had the goodwill & esteem of all his comrades and his loss was felt with the sorrow by the general division._

_Your brother was mortally wounded on the 17th of Harvestmere, after being shot by an enemy sniper on a special mission. He received immediate medical attention but died quickly thereafter. He was buried on the 19th of Harvestmere in the Dales [see exact location attached]._

_Again, the nation remains indebted him for his sacrifice in service,_

_Riordan Kerns, Maj. 36th Infantry Division’_

Anders’ hands are trembling by the end, the words blurring on the page. He blinks for the first time in what feels like minutes, feeling the corners of his eyes well with tears. Blood draining from his face, he looks back toward Hawke, who is currently running his fingers through his now messy hair while further folding in on himself.

A long beat of silence passes.

Anders watches the other man meticulously, taking what he sees. Elbows perched on his thighs, Hawke’s hands card through his hair, curling and pulling at the dark strands. His face is mostly hidden from sight, turned toward the floor, so Anders isn’t exactly sure how to gauge the man’s emotions.

Until, Hawke looks up at him and _laughs_.

It’s a horrifyingly hollow and bitter sound, so cold it cuts Anders clean through to his heart.

“They wrote in the old days,” Hawke begins, his voice rough and shaky, “that it’s sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. But—”

Anders holds his breath, as if making any noise would break this fragile moment, would break _Hawke_.

“—in modern war, there’s nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. Now, you’ll die like a dog for—no good reason.”

Anders feels a crumbling in his chest. He closes the distance between them in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of the man. It’s when Anders opens his arms that Hawke’s gaze finally meets his, the last and Hawke leans into the embrace. Hiding his face in the crook of Anders’ neck, Hawke’s body is wracked with a shudder as he begins to openly weep.

A profound feeling of helplessness washes over Anders like a heavy ocean wave bent on drowning him in the deep. Hawke always played his cards close to his chest, remaining stoic in even the most alarming situations, but here he is breaking apart.

Anders doesn’t have anything in his medical background to fix broken hearts and shattered spirits. This is a pain he cannot heal.

The only thing he can do is offer comfort, though that is nothing more than a bandage over a bullet wound. Anders sits beside him and holds him tightly, letting Hawke cling to him as he continues to sob.

Tears begin to roll down Anders’ cheeks, crying over the loss of a man he’s never met. Hawke has spoken some about his family, if not to the same extent as some soldiers divulge their personal lives before the war. Anders knows of Lieutenant Carver Hawke, whom Hawke had fought hard to get assigned to his company when he first became colonel. He wasn’t, much to Hawke’s dismay, but Carver did well for himself regardless—working his way up from private to lieutenant in the matter of years.

Hawke always held pride in his younger brother, but now that pride has been torn from him, leaving jagged edges around the gaping hole it left in his heart.

Time stretches to a lull, like the world has ceased existing outside the tent’s canvas walls. Anders holds him until Hawke’s sobs slow to a few scattered whimpers,then maneuvers them both until they’re lying down on the cot—flat on his back with Hawke draped over him. Hawke buries his face in Anders’ stomach, arms loosely tossed around his slender waist.

Staring blankly up at the tent’s ceiling, Anders cards his fingers through Hawke’s hair like before while he listens to the man’s breath even out. It’s only when he’s sure that Hawke is sleeping that Anders lets himself even begin to think.

His heart aches terribly, but his own tears have dried. Anders feels the loss as if it were his own, though he knows his pain is nothing compared to what Hawke is suffering. He’s filled with a new uncertainty, concerned about how Hawke’s grief may manifest in the upcoming time.

But one thing is clear to him now: his purpose.

Anders knows he must work harder, to prevent the loss of even one more soldier, to spare anyone this heartbreak.

This is why he is still here.


	7. Chapter 7

To all the soldiers under his command, Hawke doesn’t seem any different from that day onward. Still resolute, stern and strict, impatient with any tomfoolery and tough on insubordination. Awake at dawn and formulating strategies and reading reports far into the night.

Seemingly unshakable as always.

But to Anders, there’s a clear fundamental shift in Hawke. It’s not always visible, but Anders has a keen eye and an understanding of the brigadier-general that runs more deeply than anyone else. It’s written into the man’s every movement, the added burden of his bereavement weighing him down like a man drowning in frigid water.

The first few nights, Anders is hesitant to leave Hawke alone with his grief. He’s seen what Hawke is capable of, and the thought of such power and anger turning inward concerns him. Anders stays in the man’s tent, offering his condolences and comfort any way he could. Sometimes that meant reading on his cot as Hawke wrote letters―undoubtedly to his mother and sister at home―and other times it’s with his body, holding Hawke close during more unsteady evenings.

Anders also notices sex between them has changed, less animalistic and no longer bent on mixing pain with pleasure. Something they used to rely on for stress release and entertainment now becomes something much softer, much _more_. Hawke fucks him with less possession and domination in mind, instead clinging to Anders like a precious lifeline in a stormy sea.

Under the dim lighting provided by only one of the tent’s lanterns, Anders’ eyes trace over the brigadier general’s strong features―the strong brow above his deep brown eyes, the crests of his sharp cheekbones, the bow of his lips beneath his neatly trimmed beard.

It’s only become more difficult for Anders to resist the temptation of kissing the man he’s come to love more than life itself.

Hawke leaves for the front lines only days later, too soon for Anders’ taste. He doesn’t want Hawke to leave his sight just yet, but he has no control over the orders from central command. It’s time to relieve the soldiers in the trenches, to deliver rested ones to take their place and bring the wounded back to Anders.

Hawke steels himself, a shining visage of his old self, strong and unwavering in his high position of command. He pulls his great wool overcoat over his shoulders, flicking the thick collar up to protect his neck from the biting wind. With two rifles slung over one shoulder, the brigadier general stands outside the command tent, watching the cycle of soldiers gear up for two weeks at the front lines. Between his gloved fingers sits a dying cigarette, occasionally raising it to his lips to huff the last inhales of nicotine it can provide.

Anders readies a supply bag for him to take on the multi-day mission, stuffing it full of the usual medical provisions and other survival necessities. After speaking to the cook in the mess tent, he packs a side pocket with a few extra rations―more pieces of bread, some slices of cured meat and a small glass jar of jam.

He doesn’t mention the rations when he hands the heavy canvas bag to Hawke, knowing the man will discover it during the journey. Hawke gives him a curt nod before slinging the bag over his other shoulder, jostling the rifles as it bounces against his back.

_‘Be safe.’_ Those two words sit on the tip of Anders’ tongue, on the precipice of being spoken before he chokes them back down again. Vague flickers of familiar nightmares flash across his mind―Hawke on his operating table, sticky red soaking through his gloves, the man’s last labored breaths before complete and permanent stillness.

Perhaps the simple act of saying them aloud may curse Hawke’s chances to safely return to him.

He watches the company of rested soldiers slowly march out of the camp, west toward the trenches, toward the sound of automatic gunfire and exploding mines. Anders’ eyes track Hawke at the forefront, lingering on the back of the man’s head until he disappears into the thick surrounding forest.

All is quiet for six days, until Hawke returns with a band of soldiers who are more wounded than not.

Anders is exhausted, more than he’s ever felt before. He’s been on his feet for nineteen hours, operating continuously on what feels like a never-ending line of patients waiting for his medical aid. One of his assisting soldiers has already collapsed from fatigue, thankfully on a nearby chair instead of the tent’s floor. His position, strung across the chair’s rickety arms, is going to give him a backache come morning, but Anders doesn’t have the time to wake him.

He’s been through three rotations of medical assistants, all soldiers who have experience working at his side in the surgery tent. Tensions have been running high between the surgeon and each set of helping hands―Anders barking orders for various utensils, for more retraction, for sweat to be wiped from his forehead, for another mug of the mess tent’s stale coffee.

His evening began with four amputations, followed by endless bowel reconstructions and bullet extractions. Two died during triage, the damage too extensive and their blood leaving a stained trail all the way from the front lines. Their bodies were quickly dealt with, taken away by two unlucky souls in charge of burying them in some Maker-forsaken spot in the woods that vaguely qualifies as a respectable resting place.

Currently a soldier no older than seventeen lies on his table, unconscious from the chloroform rag Anders pressed to his mouth and nose twenty minutes earlier. He’s covered in wounds in various stages of healing, but his leg is torn open from fresh shrapnel, little bits of twisted metal embedded deep in his muscle.

Anders works quickly to seek out any and all shrapnel, reconnecting the shredded tissue where he’s able. He holds the scalpel between his fingers like an ink pen, careful not to nick the femoral artery in a way that would send the unconscious soldier to an early death.

Across the operating table, his assistant Aden yawns. It’s understandable, the man has been here for nine hours―one of the longer lasting assistants he’s had, though not as skilled as some of the others. Surgery can take a lot out of a person, especially if they weren’t initially trained for it.

Air surges from Anders’ lungs, rising through his throat until it comes out as a long yawn. The simple action makes him feel more tired than before, undoing the effects of the coffee he devoured between surgeries.

He huffs in frustration, not looking up from where he carefully pushes strands of muscle apart to get at another piece of metal.

“Stop yawning!” he finally snaps after another long yawn.

“I can’t help it, ser!” Aden says defensively, apologetically hiding another yawn into his sleeve.

Anders stifles the second yawn, scowling down at the flesh beneath his fingers. “I swear on Andraste’s―”

“Move aside,” comes another voice. Rough, deep, commanding.

_Hawke._

Anders’ eyes whip up to see the brigadier general standing beside Aden, dressed in a spare off-white apron with heavy rubber gloves pulled up to his elbows. He pulls the tools from Aden’s hands, taking over his duties intently.

“You’ve been working long enough,” Hawke says.

Aden doesn’t miss the underlying dismissal, quickly scrambling to tear his own apron and gloves off. He thanks Hawke quietly, giving him a brief salute before scurrying out of the medical tent quicker than a fennec to its foxhole.

Anders’ attention is drawn back to the soldier’s leg, working as swift as ever in order to get to the next waiting patient in time. Hawke is a competent enough assistant, having filled the position plenty of times before. It’s still a rare occurrence, since Hawke is also often busy or tired after leading an expedition to the front lines or a supply run to a nearby village.

Hawke may not know too much about surgical practices, but he knows how to follow Anders’ directions and, most importantly, _doesn’t yawn every two minutes_. The tools Anders asks for are placed in his hands only moments after asking for them, and he’s thankful that Hawke doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with unnecessary words.

It’s hours until they’re finished, the last man only needing stitches and a head injury inspection. They lost two more soldiers that day, one dead from waiting too long for medical attention while the other died beneath his hands on the operating table. Anders morosely pronounced him dead after several minutes of chest compressions, sighing deeply as Hawke writes it down in Anders’ record book.

The brigadier general disappears while Anders cleans his workstations and equipment. He doesn’t expect the man to stay and help, having spent six days fighting and traveling and another four hours assisting with surgery. Anders could leave the clean up until morning, after he sleeps for a solid eight hours, but he knows the blood will soak into various surfaces and threaten future surgeries with infectious bacteria.

By the time he steps out of the surgical tent, Anders has been awake for more than twenty-six hours. The cold night air makes his skin tingle through his clothes, evidence of the sharp contrast between outside and spending a full day in the rancid heat of the operating room. His body begs for the comfort of his bedroll and unconsciousness, though his mind wins the argument with a proposal of another cup of coffee and a hot bath.

The mess tent has a fresh batch of coffee when he arrives, which does a number in renewing his spirits. A few soldiers sit scattered throughout the benches and tables, sipping their coffee from metal mugs and quietly conversing over a game of cards. Anders doesn’t stop to speak with any of those who acknowledge his existence, heading straight for the brigadier general’s personal tent.

Hawke is seated at his desk when he enters, head bent and attention focused on the words he expertly pens across military stationary. Anders wordlessly gestures toward the wash basin stationed in the corner of the room, not bothering to wait for Hawke’s impassive wave of permission before helping himself.

The water heats up quickly, steam billowing from the porcelain basin as Anders fills it. He adds a few shreds of Hawke’s soap, lathering it up between his fingers until the entire tent smelled faintly of lavender and clove. Every fiber of Anders’ body yearns to submerge in the water’s scented heat―but it’s been years since he’s even seen a bathtub, much less had the opportunity to use one.

Anders bathes quietly as Hawke continues to write in the lantern light, the only noises to be heard is the scratching of a pen against paper and the gentle sloshing of water over Anders’ skin. He rinses his face and hair first, wiping the dried sweat away with the rough cotton cloth again and again until he feels remotely clean. The water rapidly grows cool in the deep southern winter, leading Anders to make quick work of cleaning the rest of his body.

Anders clothes in Hawke’s one and only dressing gown―a red silk garment that sticks out among all the olive and khaki that surrounds it in the brigadier general’s footlocker. It won’t do a damned thing to protect him from the night’s icy weather, but it’ll preserve a little bit of his dignity as he walks to the edge of camp to empty the basin of soiled water.

When he returns, Hawke is standing before his cot in his warm flannel sleepclothes, broad fingers gingerly pushing enamel buttons through the holes across his chest. He glances over his shoulder just as Anders places the empty wash basin back in its place, saying nothing as he sheds his uniform trousers and folds them neatly for the next day.

Anders’ gaze drifts back toward the desk, where the letters Hawke was writing are now folded into four wax-sealed envelopes. His eyes catch on the recipients written in Hawke’s precise handwriting― _‘To the Family of Private Lasch’_ read one envelope, addressed to a home in South Reach.

Anders swallows. Rory Lasch, one of the four soldiers who died in the medical tent earlier that day―under his own Maker-damned hands, where the soldier was supposed to survive to live another day. An ache grows behind his brow, down around his face where he clenches his jaw tightly. _It’s his fault._

_His fault._

“Anders,” comes Hawke’s voice, calling him out of his swiftly darkening thoughts. The man is already settled on the cot’s right half, holding the blanket up in silent invitation.

He doesn’t need to be asked twice, nor would Hawke have the patience to do so. Anders slides into place like he’s done for countless nights, stretching his body alongside Hawke’s as the man pulls the scratchy wool blanket over the both of them.

Though the trees rustle in the wind above them, inside the tent is a still but heavy silence. Thoughts swirl around Anders’ head, not allowing him to relax enough to fall into the sleep he so desperately needs. Instead, his mind constantly wanders back to bloodstained gloves, the sheet-covered corpses, the letters of condolences now sitting on Hawke’s desk.

His chest tightens, sparing a glance to his left to see the shadowy mound that is the brigadier general. He can’t help but to ask: “Those letters…”

But Hawke hushes him, unable to hide the restrained frustration in his tone. “Not your fault.”

Anders’ mouth snaps closed, pondering Hawke’s clipped reply. He tried his best to save every life under his supervision, true, but he still often fails his mission, his purpose. Every doctor swears an oath to cure and save patients whenever possible, but Anders feels that the pledge has grown to be nothing more than empty promises. Under the dire circumstances and the iron grip of the military, the meaning of ethics has been stretched impossibly thin, bent until broken.

In war, there is only kill or be killed.

In his operating room, there is only life and death.

And he realizes he stands in the delicate balance between the two, growing more helpless by the day. The war has grown far bigger than anyone had predicted, lasting for more years than Anders cares to count. People called this “the war to end all wars,” the only road to peace, but now it feels like it’s only led to immeasurable death and destruction.

The faces of the four men who died flashes across his mind, each still and unbreathing but staring blankly up at him. Four is too many to lose in a day, not when they had a chance to live under Anders’ care.

What if next week it’s six?

Or eight?

_Or ten?_

The thought of losing so many―of _failing_ so many people―sends Anders into a spiral, choking on his own breath as his heart shudders in his tightening chest.

“Hawke,” says a shaking voice, and it takes a moment for Anders to realize it’s his own. He notes the strained exhale escaping Hawke’s lips, hot air brushing over the back of Anders’ neck. Still awake. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” comes Hawke’s gruff but tired reply through the dark.

“Where do you find the strength to move forward? To keep fighting?”

There’s a poignant pause, with only the shuffling of limbs as Hawke pushes himself out of bed. Anders’ heart is a flurry of stuttering heartbeats for a moment, wondering if his question has truly driven the brigadier general away from him, but instead he hears a match being struck.

The lantern’s wick catches quickly, beginning to burn the remains of the oil in its tank. The single flame casts a subtle glow in the tent, washing over Hawke’s features with a flickering light.

Perched on the edge of the cot, Hawke braces his elbows on his thighs and stares at something unseen across the tent. Anders watches him carefully, sitting up in the cot and leaning against the stacked footlockers at the end of the bed.

“I draw strength from defending my country, and my brothers-in-arms,” Hawke begins. Though it sounds like a memorized line from the army’s handbook, the man genuinely means it.

Anders stays silent, urging the man for more.

“And from my family.” Hawke frowns for a moment, clearly thinking about Carver. Anders feels a pang of guilt for asking such a question, for bringing such a painful topic back to the surface.

“And you.”

Anders blinks, his mind catching up with what his ears heard. “Me? Why me?”

“Because… Because―” Hawke starts, not able to get past the first word. Though he’s often sparing with his words, it’s rare to see the man struggling to speak.

Hawke sighs out a long breath, reaching beneath the cot and searching the floor until he finds what he’s looking for. His hand reemerges from the depths, wrapped around an unlabeled bottle―moonshine, presumably. He uncorks it with his teeth, spitting the top elsewhere before taking an obscenely long drag of the drink.

For a moment, Anders wonders how many nights a week does Hawke indulge in alcohol, but he quickly files the thought away when Hawke passes him the bottle. Their fingers brush when the bottle trades hands, the glass slightly warm where Hawke’s palm was previously.

The overpowering scent burns Anders’ nostrils, smelling of almost pure ethanol. Undoubtedly purchased from a village local, possibly brewed and distilled in dubious conditions. Anders shrugs off his more sanitary concerns, instead taking a mouthful of the clear liquid.

It burns like fire on the way down, leaving nothing more than a lingering sting and the smell of what Anders uses to clean his surgical tools. It works quickly, however, and the drink’s clouding and calming effects are more than welcome.

“Because I admire you.” 

Anders nearly chokes on his next gulp of moonshine. Eyes widening, he looks to Hawke who has arranged his body to mirror Anders’ position leaning against the footlockers. He raises an eyebrow in question, trying to decipher the meaning to Hawke’s words.

“Why?” Anders asks again.

Hawke holds out his hand, beckoning with his fingers until Anders hands the bottle of booze back to him. He takes another long tug from it, wiping the stray droplets from the corner of his mouth.

Like this―dressed only in his sleepclothes and wiping alcohol with the edge of his sleeve―Hawke seems like an entirely different person from the brigadier general Anders sees during waking hours.

This Hawke? This increasingly inebriated man without a uniform, without a rank nor duty until morning?

This may be the closest to the real Hawke that Anders will ever experience.

“I remember when you were a fresh-faced surgeon, just recently shipped in from basic training,” Hawke says, taking another deep drink. “You seemed soft, too soft to be here.”

Anders snorts, nudging Hawke’s arm for the bottle. He’s prepared for the burn this time, relishing its heat on the way down. “We all begin that way.”

“Even so,” Hawke relents with a shrug, “I didn’t think you’d last more than a few months. You were so upset when Howe was transferred; it felt like you were ready to break at any moment. You spent days in the surgical tent, trying to save everyone. You cried over the soldiers who died like it was you who personally killed them.”

Under the growing haze from the alcohol reaching his veins, Anders remembers those first few days as a solo military surgeon as a time of great stress, some of the worst days of his life.

He was exhausted, frustrated, _angry_ over having lost so many lives that day. It was only three at the time, but he knew it would have been zero if he had been half as good as Nathaniel was. Together, their rate of success was nearly ninety percent, but it didn’t last long since Nathaniel was transferred only two months later.

He cried many tears over the souls he lost, blaming himself and his incompetency for their deaths. It was days before he could pull himself from his cot, and weeks until he could operate confidently again. He remembers Hawke’s growing impatience for his moods, but he doesn’t recall seeing Hawke in the medical tent on that specific day.

“I remember that… but you weren’t there,” Anders says suspiciously, passing the bottle back.

“I was standing outside,” Hawke admits with a half-shrug. “I didn’t want to come in while you were crying. It’s not like I could have helped you, anyway.”

“Not true,” Anders says, though it’s a partial lie. The Hawke from a few years ago certainly wouldn’t have been able to calm a single person down, much less a sobbing surgeon. If anything, Hawke would have terrified him into being subdued. Anders’ lip twitches at the idea.

Hawke sighs, his brown eyes locked on the discolored glass rolling between his palms.

“Is this story going anywhere?” Anders asks in half-jest, recalling that Hawke began this journey into the past for a purpose. “Or do I just need more alcohol?”

Though Anders wasn’t serious, he still takes the proffered bottle. He sips it carefully, knowing if they continued to share will certainly lead to a painful hangover in the morning. Well, speaking for himself since he’s never seen Hawke do anything as unprofessional like getting a hangover.

“Seeing you affected by all those losses… you care so much,” Hawke says, head tipping back as he stares at the ceiling. Above them, phantom shadows dance across the green canvas of the tent from the flickering lantern light. “You remind me that there’s still good in the world. Going to the front, it…”

Hawke sharply inhales, as if speaking about it was physically causing him pain. Anders holds the moonshine to his lips, like an old medicine peddler prescribing a miraculous elixir. In a way, the alcohol is helping them both through the night, through the war entirely.

“The front, the trenches― _this war_ has made everything in the world turn grey,” Hawke continues, his tone growing more forlorn as he brings forth the memories, the experiences which haunt him so. “I used to believe this war was just, that it was necessary. But all it’s shown me is that there’s a darkness in people that will never cease.”

A broad hand makes its way to the side of Anders’ face, cupping his jaw and turning him until their gazes meet. Anders can taste the alcohol and nicotine on the man’s breath, mixing with his own between them. Their faces have never been so close, and there’s nothing more in the world that Anders wants more than to close the distance between their lips.

_‘Drunk,’_ Anders reminds himself. The only reason Hawke is like this―this close, this talkative, this _gentle_ ―is because of the alcohol.

Hawke’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his expression softened considerably. “You’re the proof that it’s not hopeless, that there’s still good in this world worth fighting for.”

An indescribable feeling blossoms in Anders’ chest, flooding his body with a new warmth not attributed to the hard liquor they’ve indulged in. Hawke sees him as someone important, someone to fight for, someone worthy of his attention. Anders leans into Hawke’s hand, replaying the man’s words in his head like an echo chamber.

“I don’t cry over their deaths anymore…” Anders admits in a murmur, tearing his eyes away to hide the budding guilt inside him. “And I’m not sure if that’s something to be proud of.”

“You’ve grown stronger. The lack of tears doesn’t mean you’ve stopped caring,” Hawke replies, his hand skimming across the three-day stubble of Anders’ jaw to bring their eyes back together. “I can only pray to the Maker that I’ll be as strong as you.”

“What do you mean?” Anders asks, genuinely confused. Hawke has always been stronger, both physically and mentally. He’s never known anyone else as resilient and tenacious, and now Hawke is telling Anders this? He always believed the brigadier general’s tremendous might was something that many strived to ascertain.

“The ability to remain compassionate in such unforgiving circumstances… it makes you stronger than anyone here. But even the strong need help.”

Anders blinks, his chest tightening as he’s filled with the realization: Hawke’s hardened spirit, mostly if not completely, is a self-preservation tactic. Now that Anders thinks about it, the only time Hawke’s defenses even remotely lower is when he’s around Anders. He chides himself for not realizing it earlier, distracted by the bodies he digs through by day and the explosions that keep him awake at night.

He’s so deep in thought that he hardly notices Hawke’s other arm curling around him. Anders nearly melts into the gesture, relishing the unexpected touch. However, it’s cut short when Hawke abruptly pulls away, having snatched the liquor bottle from Anders’ hand without him realizing.

His eyes narrow as he watches Hawke polish off the rest of the moonshine in a few long swigs. The man drops the empty bottle over the edge of the cot, the glass thumping against the canvas-covered dirt below the bed. He shuffles his broad frame until his head is against the pillow, pulling his side of the wool blanket up to his neck.

It’s clear that Hawke is finished with this conversation, but Anders has just one burning question left.

“Is that why you joined me in the operating tent today?”

Turning over to face away from him, Hawke only hums a nonverbal response.

Anders takes it as a yes.


	8. Chapter 8

Anders wishes he could say the morning started like any other, with an unappetizing breakfast of hard toast and soggy eggs in the mess tent and the distant rumble of artillery fire and bomb explosions.

But it was anything but.

It’s the twentieth of Firstfall, the day upon both sides agreed on a temporary ceasefire. The atmosphere of the encampment is… of an uncomfortable calm, too uneasy to be entirely relaxed but placid enough for many remaining soldiers to catch up on sleep that often evades them. It’s quite empty without Hawke and a sizable company of soldiers, who left for the front the previous evening in preparation for the day’s ceasefire.

It’s an unusual truce, to stop the constant hail of bullets that has continued for years in order to gather the bodies of those who have given their lives at the trenches. The heavily encoded orders from central command surprised them both, but Hawke was honored to be called for such a mission that would normally be beneath his pay grade. 

Something in the back of Anders’ mind tells him that it’s because Hawke wasn’t able to bury his brother that he was so keen on the idea. It’s been over a month since the devastating news, and while that is an unreasonably short amount of time to expect anyone to recover from the loss of a loved one, Hawke has been making progress. 

Perhaps being able to honor the sacrifices made by the fallen soldiers at the front is exactly what Hawke needs to make another step forward.

Anders keeps the men busy, instructing those healthy and abled enough to assist with a day of laundry. It’s been far too long between community de-lousing, and Anders has become quite fed up with the amount of filth and contamination that has been allowed into his camp over the past few weeks.

He leaves the blanket and kit fumigation to other soldiers, tying his hair into a ponytail before turning his focus to scrubbing the stained bandages in the shallow wash basin at his feet. If Anders were still serving his first year in the army, he’d feel enraged over the mere thought of washing and reusing bandages―but he’s come a long way from being a fresh-faced surgeon thrown into the war’s desperate circumstances. He’s able to salvage a majority of them, rolling the strips of gauze up tightly to be used when the next wave of wounded reach his operating table.

It’s mostly quiet, save for the birds chirping in the leafy canopy of trees camouflaging the camp. Though it’s hardly sunny at this time of year, Anders would almost call the weather nice―cloudy but not raining, warm enough to pleasantly be outside without heavy winter gear.

As he and the men worked on washing and sanitizing blankets and uniforms, someone dedicates himself to providing music. The camp lacks things for entertainment, other than cards, but has recently come into possession of a hand-crank phonograph. Anders can clearly recall the day one of the villagers gifted it to Hawke in thanks for assisting the village when they were attacked. Many of the soldiers danced and sang into the night, listening to real music for the first time since shipping out to the front.

The soldier begins turning the crank, the old rusted machine coming to life after a few gentle cycles. From the mouth of the brass speaker blooms the romantic melody of a full orchestra, a deep and rich sound that immediately spreads a warmth through the surrounding area.

Some men begin humming the soft and wistful tune, but Anders doesn’t recognize the notes. He frowns, wondering if the song was released after he left for the front. For a moment he feels a painful loss of his own life, years stolen away from him by this blasted war, years of his life he’ll never get back.

He’s brought out of his musing by the sound of a few men beginning to sing along under their breaths. Anders pauses and strains to listen carefully to the words as more men join in singing.

_“Somewhere a voice is calling, calling for me,”_ the soldiers croon as they continue to work, the homesick ache in their hearts nearly made tangible in their voices. _“Dearest, my heart is dreaming, dreaming of you.”_

The song couldn’t have been more carefully selected, if only chosen from a handful of vinyls. Anders considers the lyrics, knowing that most―if not all―men have families who are missing them, hoping for their safe return. It reminds Anders that he has no one like that, no one who loves him and hopes for his safe return at the end of the war.

Well, except perhaps Hawke.

He shakes the thought from his head. Though they’ve grown closer in the month since Carver’s passing, it didn’t take long for Hawke to return to his cold and calculating self. It’s nearly given Anders whiplash from how soft and open Hawke is at night, only to wake up to the hardened brigadier general once more.

Hawke’s feelings, and whether he may ever act on them, still remain a shrouded mystery.

Anders begins washing infirmary sheets, humming along to the phonograph’s tune while some others sing. Each new song brings a furthering ache to his heart, all ballads of love and loss that can be shared across souls.

It’s nearing mid-afternoon when it happens: a series of earth-shattering explosions, cracking like thunder through the sky.

Singing voices quickly quiet down, the record player scratching as it’s stopped abruptly. Almost everyone in the camp stops dead in their tracks, dozens of heads turning toward the direction of the sound.

West.

Toward the trenches.

The sound of bombs is disconcertingly familiar, almost as common as the sound of birds or leaves rustling in the wind. But today, during the ceasefire, the explosions have punctuated the silence like never before. 

Blood running ice-cold in his veins, Anders’ eyes widen toward the source of the booming echoes. His heart pounds against his ribs, a million thoughts running through his mind―each more terrible than the last. Panic rises up his throat, hot and thick like bile choking the air from his lungs.

The soldiers stay quiet, listening for the telltale sound of the airplanes coming closer. A few of them mutter to each other, unable to hide the fear in their whispers. They ask many of the same questions Anders has already considered, wondering what could be happening during the ceasefire.

Is it their side? Is it the enemy? What is happening over the horizon, so close but out of reach?

Many sets of eyes drift toward Anders for guidance, for an explanation they know he cannot yet give. He is the ranking commanding officer when Hawke is away, and now the pressure of leadership lies on him in such an unknown situation. On any other day, this would be normal―the sounds of explosions wouldn’t have fazed any of them like it does today.

He stays silent for a long moment, listening to the sound of the distant explosions die down after only a minute. Choices lay before him, but none of them feel right. He could send a small group to investigate though it would risk their lives, or wait for news or Hawke’s return though it may be too late. Any proactive moves might lose lives or expose the location of their camp, but simply waiting seems equally as worse.

Anders frowns down at the dirt beneath his boots and wonders if this is how Hawke feels all the time, being a high-ranking officer who makes these decisions on a daily basis.

Fortunately―or rather, _unfortunately_ ―the answer comes to him in the form of a soldier riding a horse in from the west. The man is nearly bent double over the saddle, a stained ivory handkerchief pressed over his mouth and tears streaming from reddened eyes.

_‘Familiar,’_ Anders’ mind screams as his heart begins to race again. _‘This is too familiar.’_

Clearly having trouble keeping conscious, the soldier’s balance fails him. He drifts from one side to the other, leaning too far in one direction until he entirely falls from the saddle. A few soldiers dash forward, two immediately dropping to their knees beside their unconscious brother while another chases after the spooked horse.

“Lieutenant Colonel Anders!” one of them shouts but Anders is already on his feet, closing the distance in several long-legged strides.

Anders pushes one of them aside, quickly assessing the fallen soldier in short order. His fingers fly to his neck, relieved to find a steady pulse beneath the inflamed skin there. There are angry red blisters forming on the sides of his face, eyes nearly swollen shut but responsive when Anders checks them.

He taps the man’s cheek, trying to rouse the soldier for information. “Private,” he says, looking at the aluminum tags dangling from his neck before trying again. “Private Hugh!”

The soldier groans but stirs, coughing up thick and bloody phlegm and turning his head to spit it out on the dirt. “T’was… a … trick.”

“What was?” Anders asks, knowing in his gut what the private is about to say.

“The ceasefire… was a lie. _They bombed us instead._ ”

It takes only minutes to rally the remaining soldiers in the camp.

Anders tears through the medical tent, throwing as many supplies as he can find into the canvas rucksack dangling from his hand. He ordered all men able to ready themselves for both a valiant rescue and a battle for justice, a strong call to arms to avenge followed by a hearty chorus of cries.

It’s a risky plan, marching the rest of the soldiers to the front lines. They have so little information to go on, only what the stuttering soldier had told them before passing out again. The ceasefire was a ruse from the beginning, meant to draw out a large amount of soldiers from the trenches before blasting them to hell with chemical bombs. It’s dishonorable what the enemy has done, a horrific plan conjured by a truly evil mind, but Anders can only change the future and not the past.

As he’s been ordered numerous times by Hawke and other central officials, Anders knows he should stay in the camp. But that’s exactly why he’s going―Hawke might be hurt and there’s no force in all of Thedas that could stop Anders from reaching him.

The trek to the front trenches is painfully long, the three miles taking far longer than he’d hoped. In war, each minute wasted could mean a life lost, and Anders finds himself praying to the Maker for the first time in years for Hawke’s safety.

When they arrive to the entrance trench, Anders is greeted with a scene more gruesome than his nightmares could have ever provided.

The narrow alley carved into the earth is filled with a foot of standing water, so muddy he can’t see the toes of his boots. Bodies are strewn everywhere, settled in every available crevice where they could fit―some crying out in pain while others no longer struggle for breath. Bombs still explode in the distance, followed by the sound of a machine gun firing more than four-hundred rounds per minute.

His feet lead him to the closest casualties, checking over their injuries in a crude form of triage. Their eyes are also swollen shut like the horse-riding soldier from camp, skin burned from the gas bombs that blindsided them during the ceasefire.

“Bloody cowards,” Anders mutters under his breath, further cursing at anyone who thought using chemical bombs during a supposed ceasefire was an honorable method of warfare.

Not yet knowing how best to help them, Anders moves on to nearby soldiers with more destructive wounds. So many are torn up from artillery fire, their uniforms shredded from shrapnel to a degree Anders has never seen. It clicks in his mind that these are the men he never sees, as they don’t live long enough to make it back to his surgery table.

Something heavy drops in his gut upon the realization that he simply isn’t able to save them all. Death is all around him, in various stages that are beyond his healing touch. There aren’t enough supplies in his pack nor hours in the day to save every soldier, and the feeling of true helplessness nearly drowns him where he stands.

This is what Hawke returns to week after week, this valley of blood and inevitable death. It’s now that Anders understands the horrors the brigadier general has seen over the years, and why he needs Anders to be in camp to help those who can realistically be saved.

Though most are relieved to see reinforcements arrive, many are surprised to see Anders this far from camp. However, it’s the ones who don’t even notice his presence that concern him most. He loses count of how many soldiers sit huddled against the dirt trench wall, grasping their rifles like a lifeline and staring blankly at nothing as they whisper under their breaths. Too many of them are young, so young.

He works his way through the zig-zagging reserve trench, the sounds of gunfire growing louder as he reaches the frontmost trenches. He needs no map of the various channels dug through the hardened earth, only following the sounds of death and destruction and the paths of soldiers carrying injured toward the safety of the communication trenches.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” a soldier shouts, jogging up to him. His uniform is stained with dirt and blood, both fresh and old, with a captain’s pin adorning the lapel. Gunfire strafes over their heads, and Anders finds himself being pulled down by the collar to avoid it. He salutes and gestures to his rank signifier. “Captain Josef. Ser, the ceasefire was a fake―”

“I know,” Anders interrupts, his patience running dangerously thin. It isn’t his intention, but his voice grows rough and angry as he pulls the captain in. “Tell me this: _Where is Hawke?_ ”

Captain Josef doesn’t answer, but instead raises a shaking arm to point west, to the expanse of empty land separating them from the enemy.

_No Man’s Land._

Anders carefully peeks over the ridge of the trench, gazing into the scarred and barren wasteland that soldiers not-so-affectionately call No Man’s Land. It stretches about two hundred meters between the opposing trenches, filled with skeletons of burned trees and miles of barbed wire in each direction. Scorched earth and cold bodies.

“There’s no saving them,” says Captain Josef from beside him, sounding resigned to failure. “Anyone we send out there gets shot down. There’s about sixty men out there. Or there was, at least.”

Anders’ lip twitches at the word _‘was,’_ annoyed with how nonchalantly it falls from the captain’s lips. The gears in his mind grind into motion, thinking about potential strategies to save as many men as possible―particularly Hawke.

“Where are they? The machine guns?”

Captain Josef points toward three different points across the landscape, equally spread out. “One at each end, and one in the center. They evacuated their trenches before the gas bombing began, but we figure a small platoon returned to gun down anyone who survived. We should have noticed they were leaving their posts. If we would’ve seen them evacuating, we might’ve―”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Anders replies, looking into the man’s face to ensure he understood the degree of his sincerity. “Not everything is preventable, and no amount of self-flagellation will help our current situation.”

Captain Josef swallows and nods, his gaze returning to looking over the parapet.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” he begins, taking a steadying inhale before continuing. “We haven’t had any additional orders from central, but abandoning post would be a bad decision―possibly grounds for treason. But staying is akin to suicide. What should we do?”

The question hits Anders hard, shaking him to his core. This isn’t something he’s prepared for, and like the captain has noted, this may be a decision with no good answers. The lives of the men, possibly the control of the entire region, rests in his hands.

“We―” Anders begins, but he’s cut short by the booming sound of a mine exploding close-by. He crouches for cover out of reflex, but quickly surfaces upon the realization that the mine must have been triggered by one of their own men.

“Poor bastard,” Captain Josef says quietly, shaking his head. “S’been like that all morning. We’ve gotten a few survivors in, but most of ‘em can’t evade all the mines on the way back. Or the bullets.”

Flashes of images rush through Anders’ head, all of Hawke’s waning life slipping between his fingers.

The incessant buzz of engines interrupts his thoughts, amber eyes blinking as he struggles to place origin of the sound growing louder.

“Planes!” A soldier shouts, the informative cry echoed down through the trenches as a form of quick communication. Anders is about to duck for cover once more before a follow-up comes down the chain of soldiers. “One of ours!”

Sure enough, a large metal beast glides over their heads moments later, its outboard propellers sounding like thunder amongst the cloudy sky. Every man’s eyes are trained on the sky, watching as two more flank the first in close range. It’s difficult to see, but the stripe and symbol painted on the tails is definitely of Ferelden’s composite air force.

The enemy’s machine guns turn skyward, determined to shoot the planes down before they get too far. Anders watches as a flurry of bombs drop from the hatches on the bellies of the planes, soaring into the enemy trenches before exploding near their targets.

The soldiers around them hoot and holler, cheering on the planes as they make an arc in the sky. Judging by the blasting of bullets, the three machine guns are still operational. However… they are no longer aimed toward the empty land between them.

“ _Tch,_ ” Captain Josef says, his tone almost sounding disappointed. “They missed, but they’re at least comin’ around for another try.”

“This is our chance!” Anders shouts, feeling a previously unknown sense of sheer confidence flood through him. It’s now or never. “We’re taking it!”

“ _What?_ ” Captain Josef yells over the sounds of bombs and artillery fire.

“We’re taking No Man’s Land!” Anders shouts again, pulling himself up the dirt wall and clamoring over the piles of sandbags that provided them protection. Exposing himself is terrifying, but the fact that no bullets fly his direction is exhilarating.

“Andraste’s blasted―” the captain swears behind him. He waves his arm toward the others, following Anders up the steep side of the trench. “Come on, men, you heard the Lieutenant Colonel! While they’re distracted!”

With a swathe of soldiers behind him, Anders rushes onto the field. Their war cries only embolden him, gaining a rush of speed and determination he never thought he was capable of. Several soldiers, clearly more able and trained, break into a sprint ahead of him.

Though his eyes water from the residual gas, he keeps his focus trained mostly on the ground a few strides ahead of him, looking for the telltale mounds that signal a landmine. He leaps over broken stretchers, empty shells, and abandoned equipment. Rats shriek and scurry away from where they feed on decomposing bodies that have been dead for days, if not weeks.

There’s only one thing on his mind, a mission more important than any other bestowed upon him: _Find Hawke._

_Find Hawke._   
_Find Hawke._   
_Find Hawke._

Anders’ mind repeats it like a mantra, a prayer, a song that keeps his heart beating and his feet moving.

A group of soldiers, more trained and fit, break ahead of Anders. Some continue sprinting toward the enemy trenches while others stop to help their injured brothers-in-arms. Anders’ eyes dart around, scanning the field for any signs of the brigadier general.

Many of the faces he passes―still, frozen in their last moments―are horrifyingly recognizable. All of the soldiers in this region pass through his camp at one point or another and he’s long since learned not to get attached to anyone in the least, but the number of names he can suddenly remember makes his steps falter.

If this is the price of peace, Anders is determined to not let Hawke be part of the payment.

The planes make another arc overhead, releasing a round of bombshells on the sprawling array of trenches ahead. The earth shudders beneath his feet, exploding into showers of dirt and mud. Judging from the cheers from his fellow soldiers, the planes must have hit their targets. But Anders can’t spare the focus to check whether they were successful or not.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the emblematic brown woolen overcoat and a shock of black hair.

“Hawke!” Anders cries out in relief, closing the distance between him and the brigadier general. He drops to his knees beside the fallen man, grabbing him by the arm to roll him over onto his back.

Anders feels a surge of relief wash over him when Hawke hisses in pain.

_Alive!_

He immediately looks Hawke over, taking in the extent of his injuries. The front of his uniform is drenched with blood, and Anders resists the urge to tear it open before assessing the rest of him. He reaches to feel for the man’s pulse―weakly thrumming against his fingers but not yet signaling an imminent death. Hawke’s exposed skin is ablaze with chemical burns, eyes just barely able to crack open.

Anders’ heart nearly stops cold in his chest when he sees the milky white film glazing over the man’s eyes. His irises, though tracking in Anders’ direction, remain unfocused. Anders swallows thickly, taking in a stuttering breath as he forces his hands to continue his examination.

“Anders?” Hawke croaks, his throat clearly as burned as his face. His brow furrows for a moment before twisting up in pain. He coughs, gritting out the words like they were made of gravel. “Why are you here?”

“Saving you,” Anders answers curtly, waving down some nearby soldiers. “Get me a stretcher, _now!_ ”

Hawke’s gloved hand wraps around Anders’ wrist, the heat of his body undetectable through the leather. His grip is worryingly weak, compared to Hawke’s rough touches and raw strength. Anders brushes the man’s hand aside, shrugging off his canvas pack to dig out the rolls of bandages.

He tears the front of Hawke’s ruined uniform open, buttons flying off in various directions. The thin fabric of Hawke’s undershirt comes apart easily, already shredded from shrapnel and sodden with blood. The wound is large, but thankfully from a rifle and not from an artillery shell. The damage could be much worse, but Anders doesn’t have time to sit around thinking of all the gruesome possibilities.

Pushing a clean cloth to the wound, Anders focuses on staunching the bleeding. He glances over his shoulder impatiently, spotting two men with a stretcher climbing out of the front trench.

When he looks back, Hawke’s eyes have shut once more.

“Stay with me, Hawke!” Anders says, pushing firmly on the man’s chest wound. Hawke grunts, but his eyes flutter open. When he speaks, it’s less to comfort the brigadier general and more to comfort himself. “Not too much longer, I promise.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“And yet, here I am.”

“I told you to _stay._ ”

Anders scoffs, insulted that Hawke would think so little of him in the face of such adversity. “And leave you to die? Not a chance.”

“Anders― _Fuck!_ ” Hawke swears as Anders pushes harder on his wound. “Stop doing that!”

“I’ll stop when you stop talking!” Anders says just as the stretcher-bearers arrive. They circle about, setting the stretcher alongside Hawke. Anders helps them lift Hawke’s heavy body onto the sturdy canvas in one fluid movement.

Gloved fingers blindly grope at Anders’ uniform before curling beneath his collar, yanking Anders in close. Hawke scowls at him, his glassy lightened eyes somehow adding to the threatening look.

“I should have you court-martialed for this,” Hawke growls.

Unable to pass up what may be the last chance Anders has to do this, he leans in and cuts Hawke off with a kiss. Their lips are rough, chapped from the cold weather, but the kiss quickly deepens into something soft and passionate for the fleeting moment their lips touch. Deep in his chest, something clicks into place when Anders feels Hawke return the kiss with reverence, all but confirming that his feelings are mutual.

Anders pulls away just as the stretcher-bearers lift the brigadier general off the ground. Hawke’s hand loosens around his collar, his defenses diminished as he looks almost beside himself. Anders suppresses a smirk, instead entwining their fingers as he prepares to run alongside the stretcher.

“I’d like to see you try.”


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

_War is a dirty deed._

_Exploding mines, bombs bursting into noxious gas, screaming._

_Hawke, so much blood. Burns. Tears._

_A threat. A promise. A kiss._

_Hands keeping hold, but warmth draining._

_Not now, not ready._

_Not yet._

Anders wakes suddenly, his chest heaving air into his lungs while his limbs lash out at invisible enemies. It feels like a lifetime until he realizes he’s not _there_ anymore. No, he’s not in his narrow cot, he’s in an actual bed next to a slumbering mountain of a man. His comfortable surroundings do wonders to ease the panic built from his nightmare, but more so does counting the familiar deep, steady breaths coming from Hawke beside him.

_In: one, two, three._

_Out: one, two, three._

He settles back into bed, trying to ground himself using his senses. The woven blanket is soft against his skin, the smell is a mix of Hawke and the fresh mountain air. Their cabin deep in the Hinterlands is blissfully silent, far from anyone and anything that might come to bother them. A decade ago, it would have driven Anders mad to be this far away from civilization, to be this deliberately isolated. But after everything that has happened, after everything he’s experienced, he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

It’s been many months since the war has ended, won by a blessing from the Maker and the skin of their teeth. And millions of lives lost in total.

After the initial welcome back to civilian life, it became clear that soldiers suffering from shell shock―a mental illness still unrecognized, under researched, and misunderstood―were not fully accepted into society. Outbursts frightened people, leading to hundreds being shuffled into asylums or even prison.

The romantic heroism that follows war swiftly died when civilians started treating them as pitiful creatures plagued by unseen demons.

Hawke and Anders returned broken people, missing pieces of themselves left on the battlefield hundreds of miles from home. However, when Hawke discovered his mother and sister to be dead from a blighted disease, it broke the last of his spirits completely. Using the funds from selling his family’s large and lavish estate, he bought a large plot of land in the heartlands of Ferelden, offering Anders refuge there at his side.

He accepted, of course. Anders had no one waiting for him, no one to stay for―nothing tethering him to any location. Even his lifelong yearning to save lives felt fundamentally changed, affected by the war. He could still help people, surely nearby farmers and townspeople are in need of a doctor. Even one as torn and broken as himself.

Though this is the rationale he tells himself in the mirror, in his heart he knows it’s because he could not bear to be separated from Hawke. His feelings are clear now―he loves Hawke, and finally feels this love returned. They need each other desperately, a feeling so visceral it has the power to shift his entire world. It’s been magnetic since the beginning, but this time it not only echoes in their bodies but also their souls.

Civilians could never understand what they’ve been through, so they have each other. They know each other’s touch when all else feels unfamiliar. They know how it feels to wake up believing they’re still on the battlefield. They know, _they know._

His eyes drift toward the other man, skimming over his form in the shadows and catching on the raised ridges of the burn covering a good portion of his face. Hawke had only recently regained sight in his right eye, heavily damaged from the gas bombs and resulting burns. They spent that day in bed, celebrating with hours spent laying praise upon each other’s body and kissing every scar that could have killed them.

Thankfully his violent stirring hasn’t woken Hawke, or hardly disturbed him. Even without the constant sounds of bombs and the looming threat of death, a full night’s rest is still difficult to come by. Nightmares have been often for them both, robbing their days of restful sleep.

He sighs. Anders wants to forget the war and all it has done, all it has taken. The nightmares still plague him, seemingly inescapable unless he drinks himself into a stupor. Hawke’s moonshine can erase even the worst memories, but only for a little while. He’s long since conceded to the fact that he’ll never be the same, but that doesn’t mean the images in his head don’t taunt him.

Hawke, on the other hand, holds strong to the past. He holds it reverently within his heart, though he hasn’t spoken about what happened since walking into his old family home, painfully empty of his reasons for fighting.

Frequently, Anders will catch the man pulling his formal uniform from the closet, brushing off the dust and adjusting the Medal of Valor that now adorns the lapel before shutting it away again. The recurring ceremony confirms Anders’ growing suspicion―that they’ll never be able to put the war behind them, to escape its ironclad grasp. 

Once a soldier, always a soldier.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @ storybookhawke.
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it! Kudos are great but comments are motivating as hell!
> 
> NONCON SPECIFICS (spoiler!): It’s between Hawke and Anders; Hawke uses sex against Anders to obey an order, like a punishment. Anders is mentally affected afterward but they still end up together. I do not claim this relationship is wholesome and healthy.


End file.
